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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



WITH THOSE 
WHO WAIT 



BY 



FRANCES WILSON HUARD 

[OR OF "my home in THE FIELD OF HONOl 
'my home in the FIELD OF MERCY," ETC. 



WITH DRAWINGS BY CHARLES HUARD 




NEW YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



■^(A" 
^^%'\ 



Copyright, 1918, 
By George H. Dorcm Company 



NOV 30 1918 



Printed in the United States of America 



\^' 



CI.A506741 



A MES AMIES FRANCAISES, 
HEROINES TOUTES 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

With Those Who Wait Frontispiece ^ 

PAGE 

View of Chateau-Thierry %^y 



Monsieur S. of Soissons with His Gas Mask. . 54 ^ 

A Village on the Front 78 *^ 

Door of Madame Huard's Home — Paris 102 ^ 

View of St. Gervais from Madame Huard's 

Paris Home. 118 ^ 

The Courtyard Leading to Madame Huard's 
Cellar. 144 ^ 

A Courtyard in Montmartre 160 ^ 

Monsieur Amede 188 V^ 

Flocking to Read the Coming Communique in 
A Little French City 214 ^ 

Maxence 230 



[vii] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



Once upon a time there wasn't any war. 
In those days it was my custom to drive over 
to Chateau-Thierry every Friday afternoon. 
The horses, needing no guidance, would al- 
ways pull up at the same spot in front of the 
station from which point of vantage, between 
a lilac bush and the switch house, I would 
watch for the approaching express that was to 
bring down our week-end guests. 

A halt at the bridge head would permit our 
friends to obtain a bird's-eye view of the city, 
while I purchased a measure of fresh-caught, 
shiny-scaled river fish, only to be had of the 
old boatman after the arrival of the Paris 
train. Invariably there were packages to be 
called for at Ber jot's grocery store, or Dudru- 
met's dry goods counter, and then H. having 
discovered the exact corner from which Corot 

[11] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



painted his delightful panorama of the city, a 
pilgrimage to the spot almost always ensued. 

A glance in passing at Jean de la Fontaine's 
house, a final stop at "The Elephant" on the 
quay to get the evening papers, and then pass- 
ing through Essommes with its delightful old 
church, Bonneil and Romery, our joyful party 
would reach Villiers just in time for dinner. 

A certain mystery shrouded the locality 
where our home was situated. Normandy, 
Brittany, the Chateaux of Touraine, the cli- 
mate of the Riviera, have, at various seasons 
been more attractive, not only to foreigners, 
but to the Parisians themselves, so aside from 
the art lovers who made special trips to 
Rheims, there was comparatively little pleas- 
ure travelling in our immediate neighbour- 
hood, and yet what particular portioil of 
France is more historically renowned? Is it 
not on those same fertile fields so newly con- 
secrated with our blood that every struggle 
for world supremacy has been fought? 

It would be difficult to explain just why 

this neglect of the lovely East; neglect which 

afforded us the privilege of guiding our 

friends, not only along celebrated highways, 

[12] 



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but through leafy by-paths that breathed the 
very poetry of the XVIIth. century, and 
stretched, practically untrodden, through 
Lucy-le-Bocage, Montreuil-aux-Lions, down 
to the Marne and La Ferte-sous-Jouarre. 

It was wonderful rolling country that rip- 
pled back from the river; abounding not only 
in vegetation, but in silvery green harmonies 
so beloved of the Barbizon master, and sym- 
pathetic even by the names of the tiny hamlets 
which dotted its vine-covered hills. 

Our nearest dealer in agricultural machines 
lived in a place called Gaudelu. We called 
him "MacCormick" because of his absolute 
and loquacious partiality for those American 
machines, and to reach his establishment we 
used to pass through delightful places called 
le I Grand Cormont, Neuilly-la-Poterie, Vil- 
lers-le-Vaste. 

As I write these lines (July, 1918) the sta- 
tion at Chateau-Thierry is all of that city that 
remains in our hands. The bridge head has be- 
come the most disputed spot on the map of 
Europe; "The Elephant" a heap of waste in 
No Man's Land, while doubtless from the very 
place where Corot painted his masterpiece, a 
[13] 



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German machine gun dominating the city is 
belching forth its ghastly rain of steel. 

That very country whose obscurity was our 
pride is an open book for thousands of eager 
allies and enemies, while on the lips of every 
wife and mother, from Maine to California, 
Belleau Woods have become words full of 
fearful portent. I often wonder then, if the 
brave Americans who are actually disputing 
inch by inch my home and its surroundings 
have ever had time to think that a little vil- 
lage known as "Ecoute s'il pleut," might find 
its English equivalent in "Hark-how-it-rains !" 

Two touching accounts of the second de- 
scent upon our country have come to my 
hands. A little orphan peasant lad, under 
army age, who fled with our caravan four 
years since, now pointer in the French artil- 
lery — writes as follows from "Somewhere in 
France"— June 6, 1918: 

Deae Madame: 

Just a hne to tell you I am alive and well; 
unfortunately I cannot say as much for my 
grandparents, for you doubtless know what 
has again befallen our country. All the in- 
habitants have been evacuated. 
[14] 



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I am absolutely without news of my grand- 
parents. I learned to-day through a word 
from my brother Alfred that they had been 
obliged to leave home and had fled in an un- 
known direction. In spite of the rumour of 
a new invasion they did not intend to leave 
Villiers. 

My sister left the first, with some of the 
young girls of the village. After twenty-four 
hours in Paris they were evacuated to a vil- 
lage in the Yonne. 

My brother was obliged to go the next day, 
and at the present time is at Rozoy-en-Brie. 
I believe we made a halt there in 1914 when 
we fled as refugees. After three days at 
Rozoy, Alfred could stand it no longer, and 
with three companions they started home on 
bicycles, in order to see what had happened. 
They reached Villiers to find every house 
empty, and were almost instantly expulsed by 
shells. So now we are all scattered to the four 
winds of heaven. I am so sad when I think 
of my poor grand-parents, obliged to leave 
home and to roll along the high-roads at their 
age. What misery! 

I am afraid our village is going to suffer 
much more than it did in 1914. That horde 
of scoundrels will spare nothing! And when 
will it all be over? 

I hope that my letter will find you well and 
[15] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



happy, and I beg you to believe me gratefully 
and respectfully yours, 

Leon Chatelain 
Marechal des Logis 
206^ Artillerie— 28^ Batterie 
Secteur 122. 

"With the Mayor, and thanks to a neigh- 
bour's car, I was able to get away," writes 
Monsieur Aman Jean, the well-known painter, 
who had a home in Chateau-Thierry. "The 
situation was becoming unbearable and we 
three were the last to leave our unfortunate 
city. Behind us an army engineer blew up the 
post and telegraph office, the military build- 
ings, the station, the store house, and finally 
the bridge. Our eyes were beginning to smart 
terribly, which announced the presence of mus- 
tard gas, and told us we had left none too 
soon. 

"I will never forget the sight and the com- 
motion of the road leading from Chateau- 
Thierry to Montmirail. Interminable lines of 
army transports on one side counterbalanced 
by the same number of fleeing civilians going 
in the opposite direction. Now and then a 
farm cart would pull aside to let a heavy mili- 

ri6] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



tary truck get by, and one can hardly imagine 
the state of a highway that is encumbered by 
a double current of refugees and soldiers has- 
tening towards the front. The painful note 
was made by the unfortunate civilians who 
had put on their Sunday clothes, the only way 
they had of saving them. As to the pic- 
turesque, it was added by the multitude of 
little donkeys trotting beneath the weight of 
the machine guns, and by the equipment of 
the Italian troops. There were bright splashes 
of colour here and there, together with a heroic 
and lamentable animation. It impressed me 
most violently. It was wonderfully beautiful 
and pathetically horrible. 

"On one side old people, women and chil- 
dren formed a long straggling cortege; while 
on the other — ^brilliant youth constituted a 
homogeneous and solid mass, marching to bat- 
tle with calm resolution. 

"The populations of the East are astonish- 
ingly courageous and resigned. That of Cha- 
teau-Thierry watched the evacuation of the 
Government Offices, the banks, the prefecture 
and the post office without the slightest alarm. 
The retreat was well advanced ere they 
[17] 



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dreamed of it. When finally the people real- 
ised that the enemy was at their very gates, 
they moved out swiftly without any commo- 
tion." 



The German onslaught at the Marne in 1914 
had been terrible but brief. The life of our 
entire region was practically suspended while 
the Hun wreaked his vengeance, not only on 
our armies, but our innocent civilians and their 
possessions. Shot and shell, organised looting 
and cruelty, were employed to cow the intrepid 
spirit of the French, but without success. 
When, finally their retreat came, hands were 
quick to repair material damage, refugees 
swiftly returned, and even the September rains 
joined in the effort to purify the fields which 
had been so ruthlessly polluted. 

With the Hun on the Aisne, and a victory to 
our credit, there wasn't even a pause for breath. 
A new life seemed to surge forth, and all bent 
their energies towards effacing every trace of 
what had seemed like a hideous nightmare. 
Even the Eastern Railway, which had been 
closed on account of the destruction of some 
[18] 



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seven or eight bridges over the Marne, broke 
all records by repairing or replacing them 
in eleven days' time. And while this had no 
direct bearing upon our situation, the moral 
effect of even hearing the train-loads of men 
and munitions passing through our region, was 
certainly surprising. 

Little by little things began to assume their 
normal aspect. Not that they ever entirely re- 
gained it, for there was always the dull rum- 
bling of the cannon to remind us of bygone 
terrors, while the establishment of several 
emergency hospitals in the vicinity lent an ani- 
mation to the highroads, formerly dotted with 
private cars, but now given over entirely to 
ambulances and supply trucks. 

As to the uniforms, they quickly became 
such accustomed sights that a youthful civilian 
would have been the novelty. 

Buoyed up by the success of our armies, 
every one expected an early peace, and even 
the busiest of us began making projects for 
the fair future. In the odd moments of relief 
from my somewhat onerous hospital duties, my 
only pleasure and distraction was to build cas- 
tles in the air, and in the eternal Winter twi- 
[19] 



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lights I laid many a plan for a little boudoir 
next my bedroom, which I had long desired to 
see realised. 

When news of H.'s safety reached me, my 
imagination knew no limits. 

The convalescent patients from all branches 
of trade, who at different times had filled the 
rooms of the chateau, converted into wards, 
kad been very deft at repairing everything in 
the way of furniture that the Germans had de- 
faced or neglected to appropriate. There 
were many skilful carpenters and cabinet 
makers among them, and I saw visions of em- 
ploying them at their own trade, producing 
both occupation, which they craved, and funds 
which they needed, but were too proud to ac- 
cept as gifts, and what a surprise that room 
would be for H. ! 

I even pushed my collector's mania so far 
as to pay a visit to an old bourgeois who lived 
in a little city called La Ferte-Milon, quite a 
bit north of us. The walls of his salon were 
ornamented with some charming eighteenth 
century paper representing the ports of 
France, and in excellent condition. I had long 
coveted it for my boudoir, and in days before 
[20] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



the war had often dickered with him as to 
price. I now feared lest it should have been 
destroyed or disfigured, and regretted having 
wished to drive too keen a bargain, but on find- 
ing it intact, I am ashamed to say the collec- 
tor's instinct got the better of the woman, and 
I used every conceivable argument to persuade 
him to come to my price. The old fellow was as 
obdurate as ever. 

"But," I suggested, "don't you realise what 
a risk you are taking? Suppose the Germans 
were to get back here again before you sell it? 
You're much nearer the front than we! You 
will not only lose your money, but the world 
will be minus one more good thing, and we've 
lost too many of those already." 

The withering glance with which this remark 
was received was as good as any discourse on 
patriotism. 

"The Germans back here? Never! Why at 
the rate we're going now it will be all over be- 
fore Spring and you'll see what a price my 
paper will fetch just as soon as peace comes!" 

Peace! Peace! the word was on every lip, 
the thought in every heart, and yet every in- 
telligence, every energy was bent on the prose- 
[21] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



cution of the most hateful warfare ever known. 
In all the universe it seemed to me that the wild 
animals were the only creatures really exempt 
from preoccupation about the fray. It might 
be war for man and the friends of man, but 
for them had come an unexpected reprieve, and 
even the more wary soon felt their exemption 
from pursuit. Man was so busy fighting his 
own kind that a wonderful armistice had uncon- 
sciously arisen between him and these crea- 
tures, and so birds and beasts, no longer 
frightened by his proximity, were indulging in 
a perfect revel of freedom. 

During the first weeks of the conflict, the 
"cotton-tails," always so numerous on our 
estate, were simply terrified by the booming of 
the guns. If even the distant bombardment as- 
sumed any importance, they would disappear 
below ground completely, for days at a time. 
My old foxhound was quite disconcerted. But 
like all the rest of us they soon became accus- 
tomed to it, and presently displayed a self as- 
surance and a familiarity undreamed of, save 
perhaps in the Garden of Eden. 

It became a common sight to see a brood of 
partridges or pheasants strutting along the 
[ 22 ] 







VIEW OF CHATEAU-THIERRY 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



roadside like any barnyard hen and chickens, 
and one recalled with amazement the times 
when stretching themselves on their claws they 
would timidly and fearfully crane their necks 
above the grass at the sound of an approaching 
step. 

At present they are not at all sure that man 
was their worst enemy. The Government hav- 
ing decreed that there shall be no game shoot- 
ing in the army zone, weazels, pole cats and 
even fox have become very numerous, and cov- 
ey of quail that once numbered ten and fif- 
teen, have singularly diminished by this incur- 
sion of wild animals, not to mention the hawks, 
the buzzards and the squirrels. 

One Autumn morning I appeared at our 
gateway just in time to see a neighbour's wife 
homeward bound, the corpses of four white 
hens that Maitre Renard had borrowed from 
their coop, dangling from her arm. Her 
husband heard her coming, and on learning the 
motive of her wails, the imprecations brought 
down on the head of that fox were pic- 
turesquely profane to say the least. Presently 
the scene grew in violence, and then finally ter- 
minated with the assertion that the whole trag- 
[23] 



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edy was the result of the Kaiser's having 
thrown open the German prisons and turned 
loose his vampires on France. 

Be that as it may, there was certainly no 
more enchanting way of obtaining mental and 
physical relaxation than in wandering through 
those wonderful woodlands that abound in our 
vicinity, and which breathed so many inspira- 
tions to the Master of Fable, who at one time 
was their keeper. How I wish that good La 
Fontaine might have seen his dumb friends 
under present circumstances. What fantasies 
would he not have woven about them. 

Season and the temperature were of little 
importance. There was never a promenade 
without an incident — never an incident, no 
matter how insignificant, that did not remind 
me of the peculiar phase under which every 
living creature was existing. 

Once in the very early Spring, taking my 
faithful Boston bull, we stole away for a con- 
stitutional. Suddenly my little companion 
darted up close to the hedgerow, and on hurry- 
ing to the scene to find out the cause of this 
departure from her usual dignified demeanour, 
I found her standing face to face with a hare! 
[24] 



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Both animals, while startled, were rooted to 
the spot, gazing at each other in sheer fas- 
cination of their own fearlessness. It was so 
amazingly odd that I laughed aloud. But 
even this did not break the spell. It lasted so 
long that presently even I became a little puz- 
zled. Finally it was the hare who settled the 
question by calmly moving away, without the 
slightest sign of haste, leaving my bull dog in 
the most comical state of concern that I have 
ever seen. 

It was about this time that Fil-de-Fer, 
our donkey, decided to abandon civilised life in 
favour of a more roaming career in the woods, 
which he doubtless felt was his only true voca- 
tion. He had fared ill at the hands of the Ger- 
mans, and during the entire Winter our own 
boys had used him regularly to haul dead 
wood. This kind of kultur he resented dis- 
tinctly, and resolved to show his disgust by be- 
coming more independent. 

First he tried it out for a day or two at a 
time. Then he was gone a week, and finally he 
tiisappeared altogether. 

Being of sociable disposition he joined a lit- 
tle herd of deer which was the pride and joy 
[25] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



of our woods, and one afternoon I came upon 
this motley company down by a little lick we 
had arranged on the brink of a tiny river that 
crosses our estate. 

As I approached they all lifted their heads. 
A baby fawn, frightened, scurried into the 
underbrush. But the others let me come quite 
close, and then gently, as though to display 
their nimbleness and grace, bounded away mid 
the tender green foliage, gold splashed here 
and there by the fast sinking sun. Fil-de-Fer 
stood a moment undecided. Presently, lifting 
his hind legs high into the air he gave vent to 
a series of kickings and contortions which 
might have been taken for a comical imitation, 
while a second later as though realising how 
ridiculous he had been, he fell to braying with 
despair, and breaking into a gallop fled in the 
direction of his new found friends. 

Simultaneous with Fil-de-Fer's disappear- 
ance came the rumour that the Loup-garou 
was abroad and was sowing panic in its wake. 
Just what kind of animal the Loup-garou 
might be, was somewhat difficult to ascertain. 
No one in our vicinity had ever seen him, and 
from all I could gather he seemed to be a 
^[26] 



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strange sort of apocalyptic beast, gifted with 
horns, extraordinary force, and the especial 
enemy of mankind. 

There was something almost uncanny in the 
way the peasants would look at one and lower 
their voices when speaking of this weird phe- 
nomenon, and presently from having suspected 
my innocent donkey, I began to wonder if I 
were not in the presence of some local popular 
superstition. 

The rumour was still persistent, when one 
evening at dark there was an urgent call from 
Headquarters asking that we send down for 
four or five patients that were destined for our 
hospital. I do not now recall for just what 
reason I went alone, save for a twelve-year-old 
village lad, but what I do remember was the re- 
spectful moral lecture that I received from an 
old peasant woman who met our cart on the 
high-road just before we turned off into the 
Bois du Loup. 

Night, black and starless, was upon us be- 
fore we had penetrated half a mile into the 
woods. My youthful companion began to sing 
martial airs, and stimulated his courage by 
beating time with his feet on the bottom of the 
[27] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



cart. A chill Autumn rain commenced to fall, 
tinkling against the rare leaves that now re- 
mained on the trees, blinding both horse and 
driver, and greatly impeding our progress. 
Presently I noticed that our lantern had gone 
out, and fearing lest we be borne down upon 
by some swift moving army truck, I produced 
a pocket lamp and descended from my seat. 

A handful of damp matches, much time and 
good humour were consumed ere I succeeded 
in getting a light, and just as I swung the lan- 
tern back into place, the air was pierced by a 
high-pitched, blood-curdling shriek! 

L,e Loup . . . / 

At the same moment there was a sharp 
crackling on the opposite side of the road, and 
an instant later a wild boar, followed by her 
young, brushed past me and darted into the 
obscurity. 

My companion was livid. His teeth chat- 
tered audibly. He tried to pull himself to- 
gether and murmured incoherent syllables. 
Personally, I was a bit unnerved, yet somewhat 
reassured. If my eyes had not deceived me, 
the mystery of the Loup-garou was now 
[28] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



solved. And yet I felt quite sure that wild 
boar were unknown in our region. 

At Chateau-Thierry I made enquiries and 
from soldiers and foresters learned that here- 
tofore inhabitants of the Ardennes forest, 
these animals had been driven South when man 
had chosen to make the firing line of their 
haunts; and that, prolific breeders, they were 
now practically a menace to the unarmed civil- 
ian. From these same lovers of nature I gath- 
ered that for the first time in their recollection 
sea-gulls and curlews had likewise been seen 
on the banks of the Marne. 

While the country now abounds in new- 
comers, many of the old familiar birds and ani- 
mals are rapidly disappearing. 

Larks are rare visitors these days, and the 
thrush which used to hover over our vineyards 
in real flocks, have almost entirely vanished. 
The swallows, however, are our faithful friends 
and have never failed to return to us. 

Each succeeding Spring their old haunts are 
in a more or less dilapidated condition accord- 
ing to the number of successful visits the Ger- 
man aviators have chosen to pay us during the 
Winter, and I fancy that this upsets them a 
[29] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



trifle. For hundreds of generations they have 
been accustomed to nest in the pinions of cer- 
tain roofs, to locate in a determined chimney, 
and it is a most amusing sight to see them clus- 
ter about a ruined spot and discuss the matter 
in strident chirpings. 

Last season, after a family consultation, 
which lasted well nigh all the morning, and 
during which they made repeated visits of in- 
spection to a certain favourite drain pipe, I 
suddenly saw them all lift wing and sail away 
towards the North. My heart sank. Some- 
thing near and dear seemed to be slipping from 
me, and one has said au revoir so oft in vain. 
So they too were going to abandon me ! 

In one accustomed to daily coping with big 
human problems, such emotion may seem triv- 
ial, but it was perhaps this constant forced en- 
durance that kept one up, made one almost 
supersensitively sentimental. Little things 
grew to count tremendously. 

At lunch time I sauntered forth quite sad at 
heart, when an unexpected familiar twittering 
greeted my ear, and I turned northward to see 
my little friends circling about the stables. 
Life closer to the front had evidently not of- 
[30] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



fered any particular advantages, and in a few 
days' time their constant comings and goings 
from certain specific points told me that they 
had come back to stay. 

But if friend swallow may be praised for his 
fidelity, unfortunately not so much can be said 
for another familiar passerby — the wild duck. 
October had always seen them flocking south- 
ward, and some one of our household had in- 
variably heard their familiar call, as at day- 
break they would pass over the chateau on their 
way from the swamps of the Somme to the 
Marais de St. Gond. The moment was almost 
a solemn one. It seemed to mark an epoch in 
the tide of our year. Claude, Benoit, George 
and a decrepit gardener would abandon all 
work and prepare boats, guns and covers on 
the Marne. 

Oh, the wonderful still hours just before 
dawn ! Ah, that indescribable, intense, yet har- 
monious silence that preceded the arrival of 
our prey! 

Alas, all is but memory now. Claude has 
fallen before Verdun, Benoit was killed on the 
Oise, and George has long since been reported 
missing. 

[31] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



Alone, unarmed, the old gardener and I 
again awaited the cry of our feathered friends, 
but our waiting, like that of so many others, 
was in vain. The wild ducks are a thing of 
the past. Where have they gone? No one 
knows, no one has ever seen them. And in the 
tense hush of the Autumn nights, above the dis- 
tant rumble of the cannon rose only the plain- 
tive cry of stray dogs baying at the moon. 

Dogs, mon Dieu, I wonder how many of 
those poor, forgotten, abandoned creatures 
having strayed into our barnyard were suc- 
cessively washed, combed, fed, cared for and 
adopted. 

Some of them, haunted by the spirit of un- 
rest, remained with us but a moment; others 
tried us for a day, a week, and still others, ap- 
preciative of our pains, refused to leave at all. 

Oh, the heart rending, lonesome, appealing 
look in the eyes of a poor brute that has lost 
home and master! 

It is thus that I came into possession of an 
ill tempered French poodle called Crapouil- 
lotj which the patients in our hospital insisted 
on clipping like a lion with an anklet, a curl 
over his nose and a puff at the end of his tail. 
[32] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



A most detestable, unfortunate beast, always 
to be found where not needed, a ribbon in his 
hair, and despicably bad humoured. 

He was succeeded by a Belgian sheep dog, 
baptised Namur^ who in time gave place to 
one of the most hopelessly ugly mongrels I 
have ever seen. But the new comer was so 
full of life and good will, had such a comical 
way of smiling and showing his gleaming white 
teeth, that in memory of the joy caused by the 
Charlie Chaplin films, he was unanimously 
dubbed Chariot, 

The mere sound of his name would plunge 
him into ecstasies of joy, accompanied by the 
wildest yapping and strange capers, which in- 
variably terminated by a double somersault in 
the mud so anxious was he to convince us of his 
gratitude. Imagine then what might be ob- 
tained by a caress, or a bowl of hot soup. 

Last in line, but by no means least, was a 
splendid English pointer, a superb, finely bred 
animal, who day in, day out would lie by the 
open fire, lost in a profound revery that ter- 
minated in a kind of sob. Poor, melancholy 
Mireille, what master was she mourning? For 
what home did she thus pine? How I re- 
[33] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



spected and appreciated her sadness. How in- 
tensely human she became. 

Finally when I could resist no longer I would 
take her long delicate head into my hands and 
gently stroke it, seeking to impart my sympa- 
thy. "I know that you never can be mine," I 
would murmur, "that you will ever and eter- 
nally belong to him to whom you gave yourself 
once and entirely. But these are sad anxious 
days for us all; we must bear together. And 
so as my own dogs have often been my only 
consolation in like times of misery and despair, 
oh, how I would love to comfort you — ^beauti- 
ful, faithful, disconsolate Mireille!" 



1:34] 



II 



Cities, like people, seem to have souls, deep 
hidden and rarely ever entirely revealed. 
How well must one come to know them, stone 
by stone, highways, homes and habitants, ere 
they will disclose their secret. I have rejoiced 
too often in the splendid serenity of St. Jean 
des Vignes, felt too deeply the charm of those 
ancient streets, hoped and suffered too in- 
tensely within its confines that Soissons should 
not mean more to me than to the average zeal- 
ous newspaper correspondent, come there but 
to make note of its wounds, to describe its 
ruins. 

Fair Soissons, what is now your fate? In 
what state shall we find you? What ultimate 
destiny is reserved for your cathedral, your 
stately mansions, your magnificent gardens? 
What has become of those fifteen or sixteen 
hundred brave souls who loved you so well that 
they refused to leave you? Qui salt? 

One arrived at Soissons in war time by long 
[35] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



avenues, shaded on either side by a double row 
of stately elms, whose centenary branches 
stretching upward formed an archway over- 
head. Then came the last outpost of Army 
Police, a sentinel stopped you, minutely ex- 
amined your passports, verified their vises, and 
finally, all formalities terminated, one entered 
what might have been the City of Death. 

Moss and weeds had sprung up between the 
cobble stone pavings; as far as eye could see 
not a human soul was astir, not a f amihar noise 
was to be heard, not a breath of smoke stole 
heavenwards from those hundreds of idle chim- 
neys: and yet life, tenacious ardent life was 
wonderfully evident here and there. A curtain 
lifted as one passed, a cat on the wall, a low 
distant whistle, clothes drying at a window, a 
flowering plant on a balcony, sometimes a door 
ajar, through which one guessed a store in 
whose dimly lighted depths shadows seemed 
to be moving about; all these bore witness to 
an eager, undaunted existence, hidden for the 
time being perhaps, but intense and victorious, 
ready to spring forward and struggle anew in 
admirable battles of energy and conscience. 

The Hotel du Soleil d'Or offered a most 
[36] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



hospitable welcome. It was the only one open 
or rather, if one would be exact, the only 
one still extant. To be sure there were »g 
panes in the windows, and ungainly holes were 
visible in almost all the ceilings, but the cur- 
tains were spotlessly white and the bed linen 
smelled sweet from having been dried in the 
open air. 

A most appreciable surprise was the excel- 
lent cuisine, and as ornament to the dining- 
room table, between a pair of tall preserre 
dishes, and on either side of the central bou- 
quet, stood an unexploded German shell. One 
of them had fallen on to the proprietor's bed, 
the second landing in the pantry, while twenty 
or thirty others had worked more efficiently, as 
could be attested by the ruins of the carriage 
house, stables, and what had once been a glass 
covered Winter garden. 

On a door leading out of the office, and 
curiously enough left intact, one might read, 
Salon de conversation. If you were to at- 
tempt to cross the threshold, however, your 
eye would be instantly greeted by a most 
abominable heap of plaster and wreckage, and 
[37] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



the jovial proprietor seeing your embarrass- 
ment, would explain: 

"My wife and the servants are all for clean- 
ing up, but to my mind it's better to leave 
things just as they are. Besides if we put all 
to rights now, when our patrons return they 
will never credit half we tell them. Seeing is 
believing! At any rate, it's an out of the way 
place, and isn't bothering people for the time 
being." 

And truly enough this mania for repairing 
and reconstructing, this instinct of the active 
ant that immediately commences to rebuild its 
hill, obliterated by some careless foot, has be- 
come as characteristic of the French. 

The Sisters of St. Thomas de Villeneuve, 
who were in charge of an immense hospital, had 
two old masons who might be seen at all times, 
trowel in hand, patching up the slightest dam- 
age to their buildings ; the local manager of a 
Dufayel store had become almost a fanatic on 
the subject. His stock in trade consisted of 
furniture, china and crockery of all kinds, 
housed beneath a glass roof, which seemed to 
attract the Boches' special attention, for dur- 
ing the four years of war just past, I believe 
[38] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



that scarcely a week elapsed during which he 
was not directly or indirectly the victim of 
their fire. 

The effects were most disastrous, but aided 
by his wife and an elderly man who had re- 
mained in their employ, he would patiently 
recommence scrubbing, sweeping and cleaning, 
carefully reinstating each object or fragment 
thereof, in or as near as possible to its accus- 
tomed place. 

It was nothing less than miraculous to sur- 
vey those long lines of wardrobes that seemed 
to hold together by the grace of the Almighty 
alone; gaze upon whole rows of tables no one 
of which had the requisite number of legs ; be- 
hold mere skeletons of chairs, whose seats or 
backs were missing; sofa^s where gaping 
wounds displayed the springs; huge piles of 
plates each one more nicked or cracked than 
its predecessor ; series of flower pots which fell 
to pieces in one's hands if one were indiscreet 
enough to touch them. 

"I don't see the point in straightening things 
out so often" — ^was my casual comment. 

"Why, Madame, what on earth would we do 
about the inventory when peace comes, if we 
[39] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



were not to put a little order into our stock?" 
was the immediate reply. 
I was sorry I had spoken. 

Among the other numerous places of inter- 
est was the store of a dealer in haberdashery 
and draperies. An honest, well equipped old 
fashioned French concern, whose long oak 
counters were well polished from constant use. 
The shelves were piled high with piece after 
piece of wonderful material, but not a single 
one of them had been exempt from the mur- 
derous rain of steel; they were pierced, and 
pierced, and pierced again. 

"So pierced that there is not a length suf- 
ficient to make even a cap!" explained 
Madame L., "but you just can't live in disor- 
der all the time, and customers wouldn't like 
to see an empty store. Everything we have to 
sell is in the cellar!" 

And true enough this subterranean existence 
had long ceased to be a novelty, and had be- 
come almost a habit. 

From the basement windows of every in- 
habited dwelling protruded a stove pipe, and 
the lower regions had gradually come to be 
[ 40 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



furnished almost as comfortably as the upper 
rooms in normal days. Little by little the 
kitchen chair and the candle had given way to a 
sofa and a hanging lamp; beds were set up 
and rugs put in convenient places. 

"We live so close to the trenches that by 
comparison it seems like a real paradise to us," 
gently explained Madame Daumont, the pork 
butcher. Her charcuterie renowned far and 
wide for its hot meat pates, ready just at noon, 
had been under constant fire ever since the in- 
vasion, but had never yet failed to produce its 
customary ovenful at the appointed hour. 

"At the time of the battle of Crouy," she 
confessed, "I was just on the point of shutting 
up shop and leaving. I'm afraid I was a bit 
hasty, but three shells had hit the house in less 
than two hours, and my old mother was getting 
nervous. The dough for my pates was all 
ready, but I hesitated. Noon came, and with 
it my clientele of Officers. 

" 'Eh bieUj nos pates? What does this mean!' 

" 'No, gentlemen, I'm sorry, but I cannot 
make up my mind to bear it another day. I'm 
leaving in a few moments.' 

" 'What? Leaving? And we who are going 
[41] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



out to meet death have got to face it on empty 
stomachs V 

"They were right. In a second I thought 
of my own husband out there in Lorraine. So 
I said to them 'Come back at four o'clock and 
they'll be ready.' " 

And then gently, and as though to excuse 
herself, she added — 

"There are moments though when fear 
makes you lose your head, but there doesn't 
seem to be anything you can't get used to." 

"You soon get used to it" was the identical 
expression of a young farmer's aid who sold 
fruit, vegetables and flowers beneath an arch- 
way that had once been the entrance to the 
Hotel de la Clef. She had attracted my at- 
tention almost immediately, the brilliant 
colours of her display, and her pink and white 
complexion, standing out so fresh and clear 
against the background of powder-stained 
stones and chalky ruin heaps. 

The next day, after an extra heavy nocturnal 

bombardment, we went out in search of a 

melon. A shell had shattered her impromptu 

showcase, dislocated a wall on one side of the 

[42] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



archway, which menaced immediate collapse. 
In fact, the place had become untenable. 

"Oh, it's such a nuisance to have to look for 
another sure spot," was the only lament. "Just 
see, there's a whole basket of artichokes gone 
to waste — and my roses — what a pity!" 

An explosion had gutted the adjacent build- 
ing leaving an immense breach opening on to 
the street from what had once been an office or 
perhaps a store-room. 

"Just wait a moment," she pleaded, "until 
I get set up inside there. You can't half see 
what I've got out here." 

Five minutes later I returned and explained 
the object of my quest. 

"We've only got a very few, Madame, our 
garden is right in their range, and we had a 
whole melon patch destroyed by splinters, only 
day before yesterday. I had three this morn- 
ing, but I sold them all to the gentleman of the 
artillery, and I've promised to-morrow's to the 
Brigade Officers. I hardly think I shall be 
able to dispose of any more before the end of 
the week. But why don't you go and see 
'Pere rran9ois'? He might have some." 
[43] 



WITH THOSE WPIO WAIT 



"You mean old Pere Francois who keeps the 
public gardens?" 

"Yes, Madame." 

"Oh, I know him very well. I've often ex- 
changed seeds and slips with him. Does he 
still live where he used to?" 

"I believe so." 

We were not long seeking him out, and in 
response to our knocking his good wife opened 
the door. 

"Oh, he's out in his garden," was her reply 
to our queries. "You can't keep him away 
from it. But he's going crazy, I think. He 
wants to attend to everything all by himself 
now. There isn't a soul left to help him, and 
he'll kill himself, or be killed at it as sure as 
I'm alive. You'll see, the shells won't miss him. 
He's escaped so far but he may not always be 
so lucky. He's already had a steel splinter in 
his thumb, and one of them tore a hole in his 
cap and in his waistcoat. That's close enough, 
I should think. But there's no use of my 
talking; he just won't listen to me. He's mad 
about gardening. That's what he is!" 

On the old woman's assurance that we would 
find him by pounding hard on the gateway 
[44] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



leading to the Avenue de la Gare, we hastened 
away, leaving her to babble her imprecations 
to a lazy tabby cat who lay sunning itself in a 
low window box. 

The old fellow being a trifle deaf we were 
destined to beat a rather lengthy tattoo on the 
high iron gate. But our efl*orts were crowned 
with success, for presently we heard his steps 
approaching, his sabots crunching on the 
gravel path. 

His face lighted up when he saw us. 

"Oh, I remember you, of course I do. 
You're the lady who used to have the American 
sweet peas and the Dorothy Perkins. I know 
you ! And the dahlias I gave you ? How did 
they turn out ?" 

I grew red and sought to change the con- 
versation. Perhaps he saw and understood. 

"Come and see mine anyway!" 

That sight alone would have made the trip 
worth while. 

"I cut the grass this very morning so as 
they'd show off better! They're so splendid 
this year that I've put some in the garden at 
the Hotel de ViUe." 

Further on the Gloire de Dijon, La France 
[45] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



and Marechal Niels spread forth all their mag- 
nificent odorous glory onto the balmy air of 
this Isle de France country, whose skies are of 
such exquisite delicate blue, whose very atmos- 
phere breathes refinement. 

I felt my old passion rising; — that passion 
which in times gone by had drawn us from our 
sleep at dawn, and scissors and pruning knife 
in hand, how many happy hours had H. and I 
thus spent ; he at his fruit trees, I at my flower 
beds, cutting, trimming, scraping, clipping ; in- 
wardly conscious of other duties neglected, but 
held as though fascinated by the most alluring 
infatuation in the world — the love of nature. 
Here now in this delightful garden kept up 
by the superhuman eff'orts of a faithful old 
man, the flame kindled anew. 

In an instant H. had discovered the espaliers 
where Doyonne du Cornice and Passe Cres- 
sane were slowly but surely attaining the re- 
quired degree of perfection beneath Pere 
Fran9ois' attentive care. As I stood open 
mouthed in wonder before the largest bush 
of fuchsias I had ever yet beheld, an explosion 
rent the air, quickly followed by a second, the 
latter much closer to us. 
[46] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"Boche bombs! Come quick," said Pere 
Francois without seeming in the least ruf- 
fled. 

Led by the old man we hastened to a tiny 
grotto, in whose depths we could hear a foun- 
tain bubbling. Legion must have been the 
loving couples that have visited this spot in 
times gone by, for their vows of fidelity were 
graven in endearing terms on the stony sides 
of the retreat. iJeon et Marguerite pour 
tou jours, Alice et Theodore, Georges et Ger- 
maine were scrawled above innumerable arrow- 
pierced hearts. 

"All things considered, I'd rather they'd 
send us over a shell or two than bomb us from 
above!" ejaculated Pere Francois, who spoke 
from experience. 

"It was one of those hateful things that hit 
my Japanese pepper tree on the main lawn, 
and killed our only cedar. The handsomest 
specimen we had here ! It makes me sick every 
time I throw a log of it on to the fire in the 
Winter. I can't tell you how queer it makes 
me feel. Of course, it's bad enough for them 
to kiU men who are their enemies, but think of 
[47] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



killing trees that it takes hundreds of years to 
grow. What good can that do them?" 

The Boche deemed at a safe distance, we 
visited the vegetable garden where we pur- 
chased our melon and were presented with any 
number of little packets containing seeds. We 
protested at the old man's generosity and 
sought to remunerate him. 

"Nothing of the kind ; I wouldn't think of ac- 
cepting it. It's my pleasure. Why it's been 
ages since I had such a talk as this. I'm so 
glad you came. So glad for my roses too !" and 
he started to cut a splendid bouquet. 

"I've been saying to myself every day," he 
continued, "Isn't it a pity that nobody should 
see them? But now I feel satisfied." 

At the gateway we held out our hands which 
he took and shook most heartily, renewing his 
protestations of delight at our visit, and beg- 
ging us to "Come again soon." 

"To be happy one must cultivate his 
garden," murmured H., quoting Voltaire as we 
made off down the road. And within a day or 
two we again had an excellent proof of this 
axiom when we discovered that Abbe L. still 
resided in his little home whose garden ex- 
[ 48 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



tended far into the shadow of St. Jean des 
Vignes. 

That worthy ecclesiastic gave over every 
moment that was not employed in the exercise 
of his sacred functions to the joys of archae- 
ological research, and was carefully compiling 
a history of the churches in the arrondissement 
of Soissons and Chateau-Thierry. He had 
been our guest at Villiers, and I remember hav- 
ing made for him an imprint of two splendid 
low-relief tombstones which date back to the 
15th century, and were the sole object and or- 
nament of historic interest in our little village 
chapel. 

This history was the joy and sole distraction 
of his entire existence, and he never ceased 
collecting documents and photographs, books, 
plans and maps, all of which though carefully 
catalogued, threatened one day to take such 
proportions that his modest dwelling would no 
longer suffice to hold them. 

We found him comfortably installed behind 
a much littered kitchen table in a room that 
I had heretofore known as his dining room. I 
was a bit struck by its disorder, and the good 
man was obliged to remove several piles of pa- 
[49] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



pers from the chairs before inviting us to be 
seated, 

"I trust you will forgive this confusion," he 
begged, "but you see a shell hit my study yes- 
terday noon, and has forced me to take refuge 
in this corner of the house which is certainly 
far safer." 

"I've had an excellent occasion to work," he 
continued. "Our duties are very slight these 
days, and the extreme quiet in which we live is 
most propitious for pursuing the task I have 
imdertaken." 

"But, Monsieur I'Abbe," we cried. "What 
a paradox! And the bombardment?" 

"Really, you know, I've hi .*dly suffered 
from it — except when that shell struck the 
house the other morning. Of course, the whole 
edifice shook, and at one time I thought the 
roof was coming through upon my head. My 
ink bottle was upset and great streams trickled 
to the floor. But Divine intervention saved my 
precious manuscript which I was in the very 
act of copying, and although my notes and 
files were a bit disarranged, they were easily 
sorted and set to rights. So you see there was 
nothing really to deplore and God has gra- 
[50] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



ciously seen fit to let me continue my work. It 
is such a joy to be able to do so." 

Strange placidity! the immediate country- 
side for miles around having long since been 
delivered up to brutal destruction, wanton 
waste, hideous massacre, and a goodly num- 
ber of the churches of which the pious man 
was taking so much pains to record the his- 
tory, were now but anonymous heaps of stone. 

All the way home I could not refrain from 
philosophising on the happiness of life, per- 
fect contentment, and the love of good. My 
reflections, while perhaps not particularly deep 
nor brilliant, were none the less imbued with 
a sense of gratitude to the Almighty, and filled 
with pity and respect for poor human nature. 

It is certain that for such people, the idea 
of escaping the terrors, the dangers and the 
sight of most horrible spectacles, had not 
weighed an instant in the balance against the 
repugnance of altering life-long habits, or 
abandoning an assemblage of dearly beloved 
landscapes and faces. 

Naturally enough, a certain number of com- 
mercial minded had remained behind, tempted 
by the possibility of abnormal gain through 
[51] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



catering to the soldier; and to whatever had 
been their habitual merchandise, was soon 
added a stock of mandolins, accordions, cheap 
jewelry, kit bags, fatigue caps and calico hand- 
kerchiefs — in fact all that indispensable, gaudy- 
trumpery that serves to attract a clientele 
uniquely composed of warriors. 

But, besides these merchants, there were 
still to be counted a certain number of well-to- 
do citizens, professors, government employes, 
priests and magistrates, all simple honest souls 
who had stayed because they were unable to 
resign themselves to an indefinite residence 
away from Soissons, and there was no sacri- 
fice to which they were not resolved in advance, 
so long as it procured them the joy of remain- 
ing. 

I accompanied the President of the local 
French Red Cross Chapter on a visit to a lady 
who was much interested in an ouvroir^ and 
who lived in a splendid old mansion located 
near the ruins of the Palais de Justice. 

The little bell tinkled several times, resound- 
ing clearly in the deathlike silence, and pres- 
ently a young maid-servant made her appear- 
[52] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



ance at a small door that opened in the heavy- 
portico. 

"Is Madame at home?" 

"Oh, no, Madame! Why didn't Madame 
know that both Monsieur and Madame left 
for the seashore last evening? Shall I give 
Madame their address at Houlgate? They've 
been going there for the last twenty years. 
They will be back the first of September as 
usual." 

"How stupid of me," exclaimed my com- 
panion. "I might have known though. We 
shall discover what we wish to know from 
Madame V." 

We found the last mentioned lady and her 
daughter in a pretty dwelling on the boule- 
vard Jeanne d'Arc. After presentations and 
greetings : 

"You are not leaving town this Summer?" 

"Not this season; unfortunately our country 
house is at present occupied by the Germans, 
and as the mountains are forbidden, and the 
sea air excites me so that I become quite ill, I 
fear we shall have to remain at home, for the 
time being at least. The garden is really de- 
[53] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



lightfuUy cool though — we sit out there and 
sew all day." 

I asked permission to admire the exquisite 
embroidered initials which both mother and 
daughter were working. 

"I'm so glad you like them. Do you know 
we found that monogram on an old 18th 
century handkerchief? We merely enlarged 
it, and really feel that we have something quite 
unusual. But my table cloths are well worth 
it, they were the very last that were left at the 
Cour Batave. I doubt if any finer quality will 
ever be woven." 

"Your daughter will have a wonderful 
trousseau." 

"She will have something durable at least, 
Madame, a trousseau that will stand the test 
of time and washing," replied the good mother 
smiling blandly, touched by my appreciation. 

"I still have sheets which came down to me 
from my great grand-mother, and I hope that 
my own great grand-sons will some day eat 
from this very cloth." 

"But they will never guess under what 
strange circumstances it was hemmed and em- 
broidered," gently proffered the young girl 
[54] 




MONSIEUR S. OF SOISSONS WITH 
HIS GAS MASK 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



raising her big blue eyes and smiling sweetly. 

"Bah, what difference does that make so 
long as they are happy and can live in peace? 
That's the principal thing, the one for which 
we're all working, isn't it?" 

Such is the spirit that pervades all 
France. It is simple, undemonstrative hero- 
ism, the ardent desire of a race to last in spite 
of all. What more imperturbable confidence 
in its immortality could be manifested than by 
this mother and daughter calmly discussing 
the durability of their family linen, within 
actual range of Teuton gunfire that might 
annihilate them at any moment? 

As we were about to leave Monsieur S. came 
up the front steps. He had been out in com- 
pany of a friend, making his habitual daily 
tour of the city. Like most middle aged, well- 
to-do bourgeois his attire was composed of a 
pair of light trousers, slightly baggy at the 
knee, and a bit flappy about the leg; a black 
cutaway jacket and a white pique waistcoat. 
This classic costume usually comports a pana- 
ma hat and an umbrella. Now Monsieur S. 
had the umbrella, but in place of the panama 
he had seen fit to substitute a blue steel soldier's 
[55] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



helmet, which amazing mihtary headgear made 
a strange combination with the remainder of 
his civiUan apparel. Nevertheless he bowed 
to us very skilfully, and at that moment I 
caught sight of a leather strap, which slung 
over one shoulder, hung down to his waist and 
carried his gas mask. 

For several days I laboured under the im- 
pression that this mode was quite unique, but 
was soon proved mistaken, for on going to the 
Post Office to get my mail (three carriers 
having been killed, there were no longer any 
deliveries) I discovered that it was little short 
of general. Several ladies had even dared risk 
the helmet, and the whole assembly took on a 
war like aspect that was quite apropos. 

Thus adorned, the octogenarian Abbe de 
Villeneuve, his umbrella swung across his back, 
his cassock tucked up so as to permit him to 
ride a bicycle, was a sight that I shall never 
forget. 

"Why, Monsieur le Cure, you've quite the 
air of a sportsman." 

"My child, let me explain. You see I can 
no longer trust to my legs, they're too old and 
too rheumatic. Well then, when a bombard- 
[56] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



merit sets in how on earth could I get home 
quickly without my bicycle?" 

As visitors to the front, we were guests of 
the French Red Cross Society while in Sois- 
sons. The local president, whose deeds of 
heroism have astonished the world at large, is 
an old-time personal friend. 

A luncheon in our honour was served on a 
spotless cloth, in the only room of that lady's 
residence which several hundred days of con- 
stant bombardment had still left intact. Yet, 
save for the fact that paper had replaced the 
window panes, nothing betrayed the proximity 
of the German. Through the open, vine grown 
casement, I could look out onto a cleanly swept 
little court whose centre piece of geraniums 
was a perfect riot of colour. 

Around the congenial board were gathered 
our hostess, the old Cure de St. Vast, the Gen- 
eral in command of the Brigade, his Colonel, 
three Aides-de-Camp, my husband and myself. 

Naturally, the topic of conversation was 

the war, but strange as it may seem, it was we, 

the civilians, that were telling our friends of 

the different activities that were afoot and 

[57] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



would eventually bring the United States to 
the side of the Allies. 

Towards the middle of the repast our 
enemies began sending over a few shells and 
presently a serious bombardment was under 
way. Yet no one stirred. 

Dishes were passed and removed, and 
though oft times I personally felt that the pat- 
tering of shrapnel on the tin roof opposite was 
uncomfortably close, I was convinced there was 
no theatrical display of bravery, no cheap 
heroism in our companions' unconsciousness. 
They were interested in what was being said — 
voild tout. 

Presently, however, our hostess leaned to- 
wards me and I fancied she was about to sug- 
gest a trip cellarward, instead of which she 
whispered that on account of the bombardment 
we were likely to go without dessert since it 
had to come from the other side of town and 
had not yet arrived. 

Then a shell burst quite close, and at the 
same time the street bell rang. The cordon 
was pulled, and through the aperture made by 
the backward swing of the great door, I caught 
sight of a ruddy cheeked, fair haired maiden 
[58] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



in her early teens, bearing a huge bowl of fresh 
cream cheese in her outstretched hands. 

Steadily she crossed the court, approached 
the window where she halted, smiled bashfully, 
set down her precious burden, and timidly ad- 
dressing our hostess : 

"I'm sorry, Madame," said she, "so sorry 
if I have made you wait." 

And so it goes. 

I remember a druggist who on greeting me 
exclaimed : 

"A pretty life, is it not, for a man who has 
liver trouble?" And yet he remained simply 
because it was a druggist's duty to do so when 
all the others are mobilised. 

There was also the printer of a local daily, 
who continued to set up his type with one side 
of his shop blown out ; who went right on pub- 
lishing when the roof caved in, and who actu- 
ally never ceased doing so until the whole struc- 
ture collapsed, and a falling wall had demol- 
ished his only remaining press. 

Monsieur le Prefet held counsel and de- 
liberated in a room against whose outside wall 
one could hear the constant patter of machine 
gun bullets raining thick from the opposite 
[59] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



bank of the river. Monsieur Muzart, the 
Mayor, seemed to be everywhere at once, and 
was always the first on the spot when anything 
really serious occurred. 

Add to these the little dairy maids, who each 
morning fearlessly delivered the city's milk; or 
the old fellow on whom had devolved the entire 
responsibility of the street-cleaning department 
and who went about, helmet clad, attending to 
his chores, now and then shouting a hearty 
"Whoa Bijouf' to a faithful quadruped who 
patiently dragged his dump cart, and over 
whose left ear during the entire Summer, was 
jied a bunch of tri-colour field flowers. 

I had almost forgotten to mention two ex- 
traordinary old women, whom I came upon 
seated out in a deserted street, making over a 
mattress, while gently discussing their private 
affairs. It was the end of a warm July af- 
ternoon. A refreshing coolness had begun to 
rise from the adjacent river, and in the declin- 
ing sunlight I could see great swarms of honey 
bees hovering about a climbing rose bush whose 
fragrant blossoms hung in huge clusters over 
the top of a convent wall near by. I could not 
resist the temptation. Pressed by the desire to 
[60] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



possess I stepped forward and was about to 
reach upward when a mascuhne voice, whose 
owner was hidden somewhere near my elbow 
called forth: 

"Back, I say! Back! you're in sight!" 

I quickly dived into the shadow for cover 
just in time to hear the bullets from a German 
machine gun whizz past my ear! 

"You can trust them to see everything," 
murmured one of the old women, not other- 
wise disturbed. "But if you really want some 
roses just go around the block and in by the 
back gate, Madame." 

How in the presence of such cahn can we be- 
lieve in war? 

Ah, France ! elsewhere perhaps there may be 
just as brave — but surely none more sweetly I 



[ 61 ] 



Ill 



The little village was just behind the lines. 
The long stretch of roadway, that following 
the Aisne finally passed through its main street, 
had been so thoroughly swept by German fire 
that it was as though pockmarked by ruts and 
shell holes, always half full of muddy water. 

A sign to the left said — 

Chemin defile de V. — 

There could be no choice; there was but to 
follow the direction indicated, branch out onto 
a new highway which, over a distance of two 
or three miles, wound in and out with many 
strategic contortions; a truly military route 
whose topography was the most curious thing 
imaginable. If by accident there happened to 
be a house in its way it didn't take the trouble 
to go arotmdj, but through the edifice. 

One arrived thus in the very midst of the 
village, having involuntarily traversed not only 
the notary's flower garden, but also his draw- 
ing-room, if one were to judge by the quality 
[62] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



of the now much faded wall paper, and the 
empty spots where portraits used to hang. 

The township had served as target to the 
German guns for many a long month, and was 
seriously amoche, as the saying goes. "Coal 
scuttles" by the hundred had ripped the tiles 
from almost every roof. Huge breaches gaped 
in other buildings, while some of them were 
completely levelled to the ground. Yet, in 
spite of all, moss, weeds and vines had sprung 
up mid the ruins, adding, if possible, the pic- 
turesque to this scene of desolation. One ro- 
bust morning glory I noted had climbed along 
a wall right into the soot of a tumble-down 
chimney, and its fairylike blossoms lovingly 
entwined the iron bars whereon had hung and 
been smoked many a succulent ham. 

The territorials (men belonging to the older 
army classes) , had installed their mess kitchens 
in every convenient corner: some in the open 
court-yards and others beneath rickety stables 
and sheds, where the sunlight piercing the 
gloom caught the dust in its rays and made it 
seem like streams of golden powder, whose 
brightness enveloped even the most sordid 
[63] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



nooks and spread cheer throughout the dingy 
atmosphere. 

Fatigue squads moved up and down the 
road, seeking or returning with supplies, while 
those who were on duty, pick and shovel in 
hand, moved off to their work in a casual, lei- 
surely manner one would hardly term military. 

Of civilians there remained but few. Yet 
civilians there were, and of the most deter- 
mined nature: "hangers-on" who when met 
in this vicinity seemed almost like last speci- 
mens of an extinct race, sole survivors of the 
world shipwreck. 

At the moment of our arrival an old peasant 
woman was in the very act of scolding the 
soldiers, who to the number of two hundred 
and fifty (a whole company) filled to over- 
flowing her modest lodgings, where it seemed 
to me half as many would have been a tight 
squeeze. It was naturally impossible for her 
to have an eye on all of them. In her distress 
she took me as witness to her trials. 

*'Just see," she vociferated, "they trot 

through my house with their muddy boots, 

they burn my wood, they're drying up my 

well, and on top of it all they persist in smok- 

C 64 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



ing in my hay-loft, and the hay for next Win- 
ter is in! Shouldn't you think their Officers 
would look after them? Why, I have to be a 
regular watch-dog, I do!" 

"That's all very well, mother," volunteered 
a little dried up Corporal. '"^But how about 
their incendiary shells ? You'll get one of them 
sooner or later. See if you don't!" 

*'If it comes, we'll take it; we've seen lots 
worse than that! Humph! That's no reason 
why you should mess up a house that belongs 
to your own people, is it? I'd like to know 
what your wife would say if she caught you 
smoking a pipe in her hay loft?" 

Shouts of laughter from the culprits. Then 
a tall, lean fellow, taking her side, called out: 

"She's right, boys, she had a hard enough 
job getting the hay in all by herself. Put out 
your pipes since that seems to get on her 
nerves. Now then, mother, there's always a 
way of settling a question between honest peo- 
ple. We won't smoke in your hay any more; 
that is, provided you'll sell us fresh vegetables 
for our mess." 

The old woman was trapped and had to sur- 
render, which she did, but most ungraciously, 
[65] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



all the while moaning that she would more than 
likely die of starvation the following Winter. 
So a moment later the group dispersed on 
hearing the news that the "Auto-bazaar" had 
arrived. 

This auto-bazaar certainly contained more 
treasures than were ever dreamed of in ancient 
Golconda. There was everything the soldier's 
heart might desire, from gun grease and cig- 
arette paper down to wine and provisions ; the 
whole stored away in a literal honey-comb of 
shelves and drawers with which the sides were 
lined. 

The men all hurried forward. Loaded with 
water bottles, their hands full of coppers, they 
clustered about it. 

From his dominating position at the rear 
end of the truck, the store-keeper announced: 

"No more pork pie left!" 

This statement brought forth several indig- 
nant oaths from the disappointed. 

*'It's always that way, they're probably 
paid to play that joke on us. It was the same 
story last time! We'll send in a complaint. 
See if we don't" 

[66] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



But these grumblings were soon outvoiced 
by the announcement — 

"Plenty of head-cheese and camembert. 
Now then, boys, who's ready?" 

The effect was instantaneous. 

Smiles broke out on every countenance. The 
good news was quickly spread abroad, and 
presently the sound of plates and dishes, clink- 
ing cups, and joyful laughter recalled a picnic 
which we had organised in the vicinity, one 
warm July afternoon some four years ago. 

A military band rehearsing a march in an 
open field just behind us added life and gaiety 
to the scene, and reminded me of the "Merry- 
go-round," the chief attraction of that defunct 
country fair, and upon which even the most 
dignified of our friends had insisted riding. 

After all, could it be possible that this was 
the very midst of war? Was it such a terrible 
thing, since the air fairly rung with merriment ? 

"Make room there," called a gru:^ voice, 
not far distant. 

" Stand aside ! Quick now !" 

The crowd parted, and a couple of stretcher 
bearers with their sad human burden put an 
end to my soliloquy. My afternoon was 
[67] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



stained with blood. On their litter they bore 
a lad whose bloodless lips, fluttering eyelids, 
and heaving breast, bespoke unutterable suf- 
fering. 

One must have actually witnessed such sights 
to realise the enormity of human agony, grasp 
the torment that a stupid bit of flying steel can 
inflict upon a splendid human frame — so well, 
so happy, so full of hope but a second since. 
Oh, the pity of it all! 

"Who is it?" the men whisper. 

"Belongs to the 170th. They replaced us. 
He was caught in the Boyau des Anglais," 

"That's a wicked spot, that is!" 

"Is he one of ours?" questioned a man from 
an upper window, stopping an instant in the 
act of polishing his gun. 

"No/' answers some one. 

The enquirer recommenced his work, and 
with it the refrain of his song, just where he 
had left off". 

''Sur les hords de la Biviera/' sang he 
blithely. 

Little groups formed along the wayside. 
Seated on the straw they finished their after- 
noon meal, touching mugs, and joking to- 
[68] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



gether. Near them the artillerymen greased 
and verified their axles; others brushed and 
curried the horses. In one spot a hair dresser 
had set up his tonsorial parlor in the open, and 
his customers formed in line awaiting their 
turns. 

Further on the permissionaires blacked their 
boots and furbished their raiment, making 
ready to leave for home. Swarms of hum- 
ming birds and bees clustered about a honey- 
suckle vine which clung to the fragments of 
a fence near by, and whose fragrance saturated 
the air. 

The friend, whose regiment number we had 
recognised, and stopped to see, came up from 
behind and touched me on the shoulder. 

"Well, of all things ! What on earth are you 
doing here?" 

We explained our mission, and then in- 
quired about mutual acquaintances. 

"Pistre? Why he's with the munitions in 
the 12xth. We'll go over and see him. It's 
not far. But hold on a minute, isn't Lorrain 
a friend of yours?" 

We acquiesced. 

[69] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"Well, his son's my lieutenant. I'll go and 
get him. He'd be too sorry to miss you." 

He disappeared and a few moments later 
returned followed by his superior, a handsome 
little nineteen year old officer, who came run- 
ning up, his pipe in his mouth, his drinking 
cup still in his hand. The lad blushed scar- 
let on seeing us, for he doubtless recalled, as 
did I, the times not long gone by, when I used 
to meet him at a music teacher's, his long curls 
hanging over his wide sailor collar. 

The idea that this mere infant should have 
command over such a man as our friend Nour- 
rigat, double his age, and whose life of work 
and struggle had been a marvel to us all, some- 
what shocked me. 

I think the little chap felt it, for he soon left 
us, pleading that he must be present at a con- 
ference of officers. 

"A brave fellow and a real man," com- 
mented Nourrigat, as the boy moved away. 
"His whole company has absolute confidence 
in him. You can't imagine the calm and pres- 
tige that kid possesses in the face of danger. 
He's the real type of leader, he is! And let 
me tell you, he's pretty hard put sometimes." 
[70] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



And then in a burst of genuine enthusiasm, 
he continued : 

"It's wonderful to be under twenty, with 
a smart little figure, a winsome smile, and a 
gold stripe on your sleeve. The women will- 
ingly compare you to the Queen's pages, or 
Napoleon's handsome hussars. That may be 
all very well in a salon, or in the drawings you 
see in *La Vie Parisienne,' but it takes some- 
thing more than that to be a true officer. He's 
got to know the ropes at playing miner, bom- 
barder, artilleryman, engineer, optician, ac- 
countant, caterer, undertaker, hygienist, car- 
penter, mason — I can't tell you what all. And 
in each particular job he's got to bear the ter- 
rible responsibility of human lives; maintain 
the discipline and the moral standard, assure 
the cohesion of his section. Moreover, he's 
called upon to receive orders with calm and 
reserve under the most difficult and trying cir- 
cumstances, must grasp them with lightning 
speed and execute them according to rules 
and tactics. A moment of hesitancy or for get- 
fulness, and he is lost. The men will no longer 
follow him. I tell you it isn't everybody that's 
born to be a leader!" 

[71] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"But, was he educated for the career?" we 
questioned. 

"I don't think so. I imagine he's just wait- 
ing for the end of the war to continue his 
musical studies — that is if he comes out alive." 

"And you?" 

"I? Why I've no particular amhition. 1 
suppose I could have gone into the Camou- 
flage Corps if I'd taken the trouble to ask. 
But what's the use of trying to shape your own 
destiny?" 

"You've gotten used to this life?" 

"Not in the least. I abominate and adore 
it all in the same breath. Or, to be more ex- 
plicit, I admire the men and abhor the mih- 
tary pictures, the thrilling and sentimental 
ideas of the warrior with which the civilian 
head is so generously crammed. I love mili- 
tary servitude, and the humble life of the men 
in the ranks, but I have a genuine horror of 
heroes and their sublimity. 

"Just look over there," he went on, waving 
his hand towards a long line of seated poilus 
who were peacefully enjoying their pipes, 
while wistfully watching the smoke curl up- 
ward. "Just look at them, aren't they 
[72] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



splendid? Why they've got faces like the 
'Drinkers' in the Velasquez picture. See that 
little fellow rolling his cigarette ? Isn't he the 
image of the Bacchus who forms the centre of 
the painting? That's Brunot, and he's think- 
ing about all the god-mothers whose letters 
swell out his pockets. He can't make up his 
mind whether he prefers the one who lives in 
Marseilles and who sent him candied cherries 
and her photograph; or the one from Laval 
who keeps him well supplied with devilled ham 
which he so relishes. The two men beside him 
are Lemire and Lechaptois — ^both peasants. 
When they think, it's only of their farms and 
their wives. That other little thin chap is a 
Parisian bookkeeper. I'd like to bet that he's 
thinking of his wife, and only of her. He's 
wondering if she's faithful to him. It's al- 
most become an obsession. I've never known 
such jealousy, it's fairly killing him. 

"That man Ballot, just beyond" — and our 
friend motioned up the line — "that man Bal- 
lot would give anything to be home behind his 
watch-maker's stand. In a moment or so he'll 
lean over and begin a conversation with his 
neighbour Thevenet. They've only one topic, 
[73] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



and it's been the same for two years. It's 
angling. They haven't yet exhausted it. 

"All of them at bottom are heartily wishing 
it were over; they've had enough of it. But 
they're good soldiers, just as before the war 
they were good artisans. The metier is 
sacred — as are the Family and Duty. 'The 
Nation, Country, Honour' are big words for 
which they have a certain repugnance. 

" 'That's all rigmarole that somebody hands 
you when you've won the Wooden Cross and a 
little garden growing over your tummy,' is the 
way they put it in their argot. 'The Mar- 
seillaise, the Chant du Depart are all right for 
the youngsters, and the reviews — and let me 
tell you, the reviews take a lot of furbishing and 
make a lot of dust. That's all they really 
amount to.' 

"When they sing, it's eternally 'The Moun- 
taineers' who, as you know, are always 'there,' 
*Sous les Fonts de Paris,' 'Madelon' and other 
sentimental compositions, and if by accident, 
in your desire to please, you were prone to com- 
pare them to the heroes of Homer, it's more 
than likely your pains would be rewarded by 
the first missile on which they could lay their 
[74] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



hands and launch in your direction. They will 
not tolerate mockery. 

"No," he went on, filling his pipe, and enun- 
ciating between each puiF. "No, they are 
neither supermen nor heroes; no more than 
they are drunkards or foul mouthed black- 
guards. No, they are better than all that — 
they are men, real men, who do everything 
they do well; be it repairing a watch, cabinet- 
making, adding up long columns of figures or 
peeling potatoes, mounting guard, or going 
over the top ! They do the big things as though 
they were small, the small things as though 
they were big! 

"Two days ago the captain sent for two 
men who had been on patrol duty together. 
He had but one decoration to bestow and both 
chaps were in hot discussion as to who should 
not be cited for bravery. 

" 'Now, boys, enough of this,' said the cap- 
tain. 'Who was leading, and who first cut the 
German barbed wire?' 

" 'Dubois.' 

" 'Well then, Dubois, what's all this non- 
sense? The cross is yours.' 

" 'No, sir, if you please, that would be idiotic! 
[75] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



I'm a foundling, haven't any family. What's 
a war cross more or less to me? Now Paul 
here keeps a cafe; just think of the pleasure it 
will give his clientele to see him come back 
decorated.' 

"The captain who knows his men, under- 
stood Dubois' sincerity, and so Paul got the 
medal. 

"I believe it was Peguy who said that *Joan 
of Arc has the same superiority over other 
saints, as the man who does his military serv- 
ice has over those who are exempt.' But 'it's 
only the soldiers who really understand that, 
and when they say On les aura, it means 
something more from their lips, 'than when ut- 
tered by a lady over her tea-cups, or a reporter 
in his newspaper." 

During this involuntary monologue we had 
strolled along the road which Nourrigat had 
originally indicated as the direction of our 
friend Pistre. Presently he led us into the 
church, a humble little village sanctuary. A 
shell had carried away half the apse, and sadly 
damaged the altar. The belfry had been de- 
molished and the old l)ronze bell split into four 
pieces had been carefully fitted together by 
[76] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



some loving hand, and stood just inside the 
doorway. 

St. Anthony of Padua had been beheaded, 
and of St. Roch there remained but one foot 
and half his dog. Yet, a delightful sensation 
of peace and piety reigned everywhere. From 
the confessional rose the murmur of voices, and 
the improvised altar was literally buried be- 
neath garlands of roses. 

In what had once been a chapel, a soldier 
now sat writing. His note books were spread 
before him on a table, a telephone was at his 
elbow. 

Chalk letters on a piece of broken slate in- 
dicate that this is the ''Bureau de la 22^" 

An old bent and withered woman, leaning 
on a cane, issued from this office-chapel as we 
approached. 

"Why that's mother Tesson," exclaimed 
Nourrigat. "Good evening, mother; how's 
your man to-day?" 

"Better, sir. Much better, thank you. 
They've taken very good care of him at your 
hospital." 

The old couple had absolutely refused to 
evacuate their house. The Sous-Prefet, the 
[77] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



Prefet, all the authorities had come and in- 
sisted, but to no avail. 

"We've lost everything," she would explain. 
"Our thr.ee cows, our chickens, our pigs. Kill us 
if you like, but don't force us to leave home. 
We worked too hard to earn it!" 

And so they had hung on as an oyster 
clings to its rock. One shell had split their 
house in twain, another had flattened out the 
hayloft. The old woman lay on her bed crip- 
pled with rheumatism, her husband a victim 
of gall stones. Their situation was truly most 
distressing. 

But there were the soldiers. Not any special 
company or individual — but the soldiers, the 
big anonymous mass — who took them in charge 
and passed them on from one to another, 

"We leave father and mother Tesson to your 
care," was all they said to the new comers as 
they departed. But that was sufficient, and so 
the old couple were nursed, clothed and fed by 
those whom one would suppose had other oc^ 
cupations than looking after the destitute. 

Three times the house was brought to 
earth. Three times they rebuilt it. The last 
time they even put in a stove so that the old 
[78] 



. • \ 



LW 1 







A VILLAGE ON THE FRONT 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



woman would not have to bend over to reach 
her hearth. New beds were made and installed, 
the garden dug and planted. The old man was 
operated upon at the Division Hospital, and 
when he became convalescent they shared the 
contents of their home packages with him. 

Who were they? This one or that one? 
Mother Tesson would most surely have been at 
a loss to name the lad who returned from his 
furlough bringing two hens and a rooster to 
start her barnyard. She vaguely remembered 
that he was from the south, on account of his 
accent, and that he must have travelled across 
all France with his cage of chickens in his 
hand. 

They entered her home, smoked a pipe by 
her fireside, helped her to wash the dishes or 
shell peas ; talked a moment with her old man 
and left, saying an revoir. 

Another would come back greeting her 
with a cordial ''Bonjour, mere Tesson/' 

"Good day, my son," she would reply. 

And it was this constantly changing new 
found son who would chop wood, draw water 
from the well, write a letter that would exempt 
[79] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



them from taxes, or make a demand for help 
from the American Committees. 

Thus the aged pair had lived happily, loved 
and respected, absolutely without want, and 
shielded from all material worry. And when 
some poor devil who has spent four sleepless 
nights in the trenches, on his return steals an 
hour or two from his well earned, much craved 
sleep, in order to hoe their potato patch, one 
would doubtless be astonished to hear such a 
man exclaim by way of excuse for his con- 
duct — 

"Oh, the poor old souls! Just think of it! 
At their age. What a pity.^^ 

We found Pistre making a careful toilet 
with the aid of a tin pail full of water. 

"This is a surprise, on my soul!" 

We hastened to give him news of his family 
and friends. 

Presently he turned towards Nourrigat. 

"How about your regiment? Stationary?" 

"I fancy so. We were pretty well thinned 
out. We're waiting for reinforcements." 

"What's become of Chenu, and Morlet and 
Panard?" 

[80] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"Gone! all of them." 

"Too bad! They were such good fellows!'' 

And our friends smiled, occupied but with 
the thought of the living present. Paris, their 
friends, their families, their professions, all 
seemed to be forgotten, or completely over- 
shadowed by the habitual daily routine of 
marches and halts, duties and drudgery. They 
were no longer a great painter and a brilliant 
barrister. They were two soldiers; two 
atoms of that formidable machine which shall 
conquer the German; they were as two monks 
in a monastery — absolutely oblivious to every 
worldly occupation. 

We understand, we feel quite certain that 
they will be ours again — ^but later — ^when this 
shall all be over — if God spares them to return. 

At that same instant two boys appeared at 
the entrance to the courtyard. They may 
have been respectively ten and twelve years 
of age. The perspiration trickled from their 
faces, and they were bending beneath the 
weight of a huge bundle each carried on his 
back. 

"Hello, there, fellows," called one of them. 

A soldier appeared on the threshold. 
[81] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"Here Lefranc — ^here are your two boxes 
of sardines, and your snufF. There isn't any 
more plum jam to be had. Oh, yes, and here's 
your writing paper." 

The child scribbled something in an old ac- 
count book. 

"That makes fifty-three sous," he finally an- 
nounced. 

Other soldiers now came up. 

The boys were soon surrounded by a group 
of eager gesticulating poilus. 

"Oh, shut up, can't you? How can a fellow 
think if you all scream at once? Here — 
Mimile" — and he turned to his aid. "Don't 
you give 'em a thing." 

Then the tumult having subsided, he con- 
tinued — 

"Now then, your names, one at a time — 
and don't muddle me when I'm trying to 
count!" 

Pistre quickly explained that this phenome- 
non was Popaul called "Business" — and Mi- 
mile, his clerk, both sons of a poor widow who 
washed for the soldiers. In spite of his tender 
years "Business" had developed a tendency 
for finance that bespoke a true captain of in- 
[82] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



dustry. He had commenced by selling the 
men newspapers, and then having saved 
enough to buy first one and then a second 
bicycle, the brothers went twice a day to Vil- 
lers Cotterets, some fifteen miles distant, in 
quest of the orders given them by the soldiers. 
At first the dealers tried to have this com- 
merce prohibited, but as the lads were scrupu- 
lously honest, and their percentage very mod- 
est, the Commandant not only tolerated, but 
protected them. 

Mimile was something of a Jonah, having 
twice been caught by bits of shrapnel, which 
necessitated his being cared for at the dressing 
station. 

"All his own fault too," exclaimed Business, 
shrugging his shoulders. "He's no good at 
diving. Doesn't flatten out quick enough. 
Why I used to come right over the road last 
Winter when the bombardment was on full 
tilt. I was then working for the Legion and 
the Chasseurs. No cinch let me tell you! It 
used to be — Topaul here — Popaul there — 
Where's my tobacco? How about my eau-de- 
Cologne ?' There wasn't any choice with those 
fellows. It was furnish the goods or bust — and 
[83] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



I never lost them a sou's worth of merchandise 
either!" 

Business knew everything and everybody; 
all the tricks of the trade, all the tricks of the 
soldiers. He had seen all the Generals, and all 
the Armies from the British to the Portuguese. 

He had an intimate acquaintance with all 
the different branches of warfare, as well as a 
keen memory for slang and patois. He nour- 
ished but one fond hope in his bosom — a hope 
which in moments of expansion he imparts, if 
he considers you worthy of his confidence. 

"In four years I'll volunteer for the avia- 
tion corps." 

"In four years? That's a long way off, my 
lad. That's going some, I should say," called 
a poilu who had overheard the confession. 

"Look here, Business, did I hear you say it 
won't be over in four years?" asked another. 

"Over? Why, it'll have only just begun. It 
was the Americans on the motor trucks who 
told me so, and I guess they ought to know !" 

We watched him distribute his packages, 
make change and take down his next day's or- 
ders, in a much soiled note-book, and with the 
aid of a stubby pencil which he was obliged to 
[84] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



wet every other letter. When he had finished 
a soldier slipped over towards him. 

"I say, Paul," he called out to him, "would 
you do us the honour of dining with us ? We've 
got a package from home. Bring your brother 
with you." 

Business was touched to the quick. 

"I'm your man," he answered. "And with 
pleasure. But you must let me furnish the 
aperatifJ' 

"Just as you say, old man." 

Brusquely turning about, the future trades- 
man sought for his clerk who had disappeared. 

"Mimile," he shouted, "Mimile, I say, run 
and tell mamma to iron our shirts and put some 
polish on our shoes. I'll finish to-day's job by 
myself." 



[85] 



IV 



Not satisfied with the havoc wrought in 
Soissons and other cities of the front, the 
Boche is now trying to encircle the head of 
Paris with the martyr's crown. The capital, 
lately comprised in the army zone, has been 
called upon to pay its blood tax, and like all 
the other heroic maimed and wounded, has 
none the less retained its good humour, its con- 
fidence and its serenity. 

"It will take more than that to prevent us 
from going to the cafes," smiled an old Pa- 
risian, shrugging his shoulders. 

And this sentiment was certainly general if 
one were to judge by the crowd who literally 
invaded the terrasses between five and seven, 
and none of whom seemed in the least preoccu- 
pied or anxious. 

Aperatifs have long since ceased to be any- 
thing save pleasant remembrances — yet the 
custom itself has remained strong as a tradi- 
tion. Absinthes, bitters and their like have not 
[86] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



only been abolished, but replaced — and by 
what? Mineral waters, fruit syrups and tea! 

The waiters have been metamorphosed into 
herbalists. Besides, what am I saying, there 
are really no more waiters, save perhaps a few 
decrepit specimens whom flatf oot has relegated 
beyond the name, their waddhng so strangely 
resembles that of ducks. All the others are 
serving — at the front. 

From my seat I could see two ferocious 
looking, medal bespangled warriors ordering, 
the one a linden flower and verbena, the other 
camomile with mint leaf. And along with the 
cups, saucers and tea-pots, the waiter brought 
a miniature caraiFe, which in times gone by 
contained the brandy that always accompanied 
an order of cofi'ee. At present its contents was 
extract of orange flower! 

There may be certain smart youth who brag 
about having obtained kirsch for their tilleul^ 
or rum in their tea, but such myths are scarcely 
credited. 

Naturally there is the grumbling element 

who claim that absinthe never hurt any one, 

and cite as example the painter Harpignies, 

who lived to be almost a hundred, having ab- 

[87] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



sorbed on the average of two a day until the 
very last. 

But all have become so accustomed to mak- 
ing sacrifices that even this one is passed off 
with a smile. What can one more or less mean 
now? Besides, the women gave up pastry, 
didn't they? 

One joked the first time one ordered an in- 
fusion or a lemon vichy, one was even a bit dis- 
gusted at the taste. And then one got used to 
it, the same as one is ready to become accus- 
tomed to anything ; to trotting about the dark- 
ened streets, to going to bed early, to getting 
along without sugar, and even to being 
bombed. 

There is a drawing by Forain which in- 
stantly obtained celebrity, and which repre- 
sents two French soldiers talking together in 
the trenches. 

"If only they're able to stick it out!" 

"Who?" 

"The civilians!" 

And now at the end of four long years it 
may be truly said of the civilian that he has 
"seen it through." Not so gloriously, perhaps, 
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but surely quite as magnificently as his broth- 
ers at the front. 

In a country like France, where all men 
must join the army, the left-behind is not an 
indifferent being; he is a father, a brother, a 
son, or a friend; he is that feverish creature 
who impatiently waits the coming of the post- 
man, who lives in a perpetual state of agony, 
trembles for his dear ones, and at the same 
time continues his business, often doubling, 
even trebling his efforts so as to replace the 
absent, and still has sufficient sense of humour 
to remark: 

"In these days when every one is a soldier, 
it's a hard job to play the civilian." 

Last summer an American friend said to 
me: 

"Of course, there are some changes, but as 
I go about the streets day in and day out, it 
hardly seems as though Paris were conscious 
of the war. It is quite unbelievable." 

But that very same evening when slightly 
after eleven, Elizabeth and I sauntered up the 
darkened, deserted Faubourg St. Honore — 

"Think," she said, catching my arm, "just 
think that behind each and every one of those 
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fa9ades there is some one suffering, hoping, 
weeping, perhaps in secret! Think of the 
awful moment when all the bells shall sol- 
emnly toll midnight, every stroke resounding 
like a dirge in the souls of those who are torn 
with anxiety, who crave relief, and patiently 
implore a sleep that refuses to come." 

The soldiers know it, know but too well the 
worth of all the energies expended without 
thought of glory; appreciate the value of that 
stoicism which consists in putting on a bold 
front and continuing the every-day life, with- 
out betraying a trace of sorrow or emotion. 

Many a husband is proud of his wife, many 
a brother of his sister, and many a son of his 
father and his mother. 

Even those, who all things considered would 
seem the farthest from the war, suffer untold 
tortures. How often last autumn did H. and 
I pay visits to old artist friends, men well into 
the sixties with no material worries, and no one 
at the front ; only to find them alone in one cor- 
ner of their huge studios, plunged in profound 
reveries, and utterly unconscious of the oncom- 
ing night, or the rain that beat against the sky- 
lights. 

[90] 



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"I know, I know, it's all very well to shake 
yourself and say you must work. It's easy 
enough to recall that in 1870 Fantin Latour 
shut himself up and painted fruit and flowers, 
and by emulation, buoyed up perhaps by this 
precedent, you sit down and sketch a still life. 
What greater joy than to seek out a harmony, 
find the delicate suave tones, and paint it in 
an unctuous medium. Yes, it's a joy, but only 
when head and heart are both in it ! The mu- 
seums too, used to be a somxe of untold pleas- 
ure, but even if they were open you wouldn't 
go, because the head and the heart are 'Out 
there' where that wondrous youth is being 
mowed down — 'Out there' where lies our every 
hope, 'Out there' where we would like to be, 
all of us I 'Tis hardly the moment to paint ripe 
grapes and ruddy apples, and to feel 'that 
you're only good for that! It's stupid to be 
old!" 

And many, many a dear old man has passed 
away, unnoticed. When one asks the cause of 
a death friends shrug their shoulders, 

"We scarcely know, some say one thing, 
some another — perhaps the war!" 

"In proportion you'll find that there are as 
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many deaths on the Boulevard as in the 
trenches," said our friend, Pierre Stevens, on 
returning from Degas' funeral. 

I would you might go with me, all you Tvho 
love France, into one of those Parisian houses, 
where after dinner when the cloth has been 
removed, the huge road maps are spread out 
on the dining-room table, and every one eager- 
ly bends over them with bated breath, while the 
latest communique is read. Fathers, mothers, 
grandmothers, and little children, friends and 
relatives, solemnly, anxiously await the name 
of their secteurs — the secteurs where their 
loved ones are engaged. How all the letters 
are read, re-read and handed about, each one 
seeking a hidden sense, the meaning of an al- 
lusion; how dark grows every brow when the 
news is not so good — ^what radiant expanse at 
the word victory. 

And through fourteen hundred long days 
this same scene has been repeated, and no one 
has ever quailed. 

The theatres have cellars prepared to receive 

their audiences in case of bombardment, and 

one of our neighbours, Monsieur Walter, has 

just written asking permission in my absence 

[92] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



to build an armoured dug-out in the hallway 
of my home. 

"It is precisely the organisation of this dug- 
out that prompts my writing to you, chere 
Madame. 

"So much bronchitis and so many other ills 
have been contracted in cellars, that I hesitate 
to take my children down there; but on the 
other hand, I dare not leave them upstairs, 
where they would be altogether too exposed. 
It is thus that I conceived the idea of asking 
your permission to transform into a sort of 
*Dug-out dormitory' — (if I may be permitted 
the expression) the little passage way, which 
in your house separates the dining-room from 
the green room. To have something absolutely 
safe, it would be necessary to give the ceiling 
extra support, then set steel plates in the floor 
of the little linen room just above and sandbag 
all the windows. 

"Naturally, I have done nothing pending 
your consent. Useless to say, we will put 
everything in good order if you return, un- 
less you should care to use the dug-out yourself. 
My wife and I shall anxiously await your re- 

ply." 

[93] 



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And this in Paris, June 28th, 1918! 

I do not know what particular epoch in 
world war events served as inspiration to the 
author of a certain ditty, now particularly pop- 
ular among the military. But decidedly his in- 
junction to 

"Pack all your troubles in an old kit bag, 
And smile, smile, smile," 

has been followed out to the letter, in the case 
of the Parisian, who has also added that other 
virtue "Patience" to his already long list of 
qualities. 

With the almost total lack of means of com- 
munication, a dinner downtown becomes an 
expedition, and a theatre party a dream of the 
future. 

During the Autumn twilights, on the long 
avenues swept by the rain, or at street cor- 
ners where the wind seizes it and turns it into 
miniature water spouts, one can catch glimpses 
of the weary, bedraggled Parisian, struggling 
beneath a rebellious umbrella, patiently wait- 
ing for a cab. He has made up his mind to 
take the first that goes by. There can be no 
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question of discrimination. Anything will be 
welcome. Yes, anything, even one of those 
evil-smelling antiquated hackneys drawn by a 
decrepit brute who will doubtless stumble and 
fall before having dragged you the first five 
hundred yards, thereby bringing down the piti- 
less wrath of his aged driver, not only on his 
own, but your head. 

Taxis whizz by at a rate which leads one to 
suppose that they had a rendezvous with dame 
Fortune. Their occupants are at the same time 
objects of envy and admiration, and one calls 
every latent cerebral resource to his aid, in 
order to guess where on earth they were to 
be found empty. And how consoling is the 
disdainful glance of the chauffeur who, having 
a fare, is hailed by the unfortunate, desperate 
pedestrian that has a pressing engagement at 
the other end of town. 

If one of them ever shows signs of slowing 
up, it is immediately pounced upon and sur- 
rounded by ten or a dozen damp human beings. 

Triumphantly the driver takes in their 
humble, supplicating glances (glances which 
have never been reproduced save in pictures of 
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the Martyrs), and then clearing his throat he 
questions : 

"First of all I've got to know where you 
want to go. I'm bound for Crenelle." 

Nobody ever wants to go to Crenelle. 

If some one tactfully suggests the Avenue 
de Messine, he is instantly rebuiFed by a steady 
stare that sends him back, withered, into the 
second row of the group. A shivering woman, 
taking all her courage into her hands, sug- 
gests the Palais d'Orsay, but is ignored while 
a man from behind calls forth "Five francs if 
you'll take me to the Avenue du Bois." 

The chauffeur's glance wavers, it seems pos- 
sible that he might entertain the proposal. 
The gentleman steps forward, already has his 
hand on the door handle, when from somewhere 
in the darkness, helmet clad, stick in his hand, 
kit bag over one shoulder, a poilu permission- 
aire elbows his way through the crowd. There 
is no argument, he merely says, 

"Look here, old man, I've got to make the 
6.01 at the Care du Nord; drive like hell!" 

"You should worry. We'll get there." 

Now, the Care du Nord is certainly not in 
the direction of Crenelle. On the contrary 
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it is diametrically opposite, geographically 
speaking. But nobody seems to mind. The 
chauffeur is even lauded for his patriotic sen- 
timents, and one good-hearted, bedraggleci 
creature actually murmurs : 

"I only hope the dear fellow does make it !" 

*'What does it matter if we do have to wait 
a bit — that's all we've really got to do, after 
all," answers an elderly man moving away. 

"It would be worse than this if we were in 
the trenches," chimes in some one else* 

"My son is in water up to his waist out there 
in Argonne," echoes a third, as the group dis- 
bands. 

And yet people do go to the theatre. 

Gemier has made triumphant productions, 
with the translations of the Shakesperean So- 
ciety, and true artist that he is, has created 
sensational innovations by way of mise-en- 
scene in the "Merchant of Venice" and "An- 
thony and Cleopatra." 

It's a far cry now to the once all too popu- 
lar staging a la Munich. 

Lamy and Le Gallo were excruciatingly 
funny in a farce called "My God-son," but the 
real type of theatrical performance which is 
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unanimously popular, which will hold its own 
to the very end, is the Heview. 

How on earth the authors manage to scrape 
up enough comic subjects, when sadness is so 
generally prevalent, and how they succeed in 
making their public laugh spontaneously and 
heartily, without the shghtest remorse or ar- 
ri^re pensee^ has been a very interesting ques- 
tion to me. 

Naturally, their field is limited, and there 
are certain subjects which are tabooed com- 
pletely ; so the trifling event, the ridiculous side 
of Parisian life, have come to the fore. Two 
special types, the slacker and the profiteer, 
or nouveau riche, are very generally and 
very thoroughly maltreated. If I am any 
judge, it is the emhusque, who is the spe- 
cial pet, and after him come the high cost of 
living, the lack of fuel, the obscurity of the 
streets, the length of women's skirts, etc. — all 
pretexts for more or less amusing topical 
songs. 

As to the war itself, they have made some- 
thing very special of it. Thanks to them the 
trenches become a very delightful spot popu- 
lated by a squadron of nimble footed misses, 
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who, iDooted, spurred, helmet-crowned and cos- 
tumed in horizon blue, sing of the heroism and 
the splendid good humour of the poilu while 
keeping time to a martial rhythm. 

There is invariably a heavy comedian who 
impersonates the jovial chef — preparing a 
famous sauce in which to dish up ''Willy" the 
day he shall be captured; the soldier on fur- 
lough who is homesick for the front; the 
wounded man who stops a moment to sing 
(with many frills and flourishes) the joys of 
shedding one's blood for his country. 

Attacks are made to well known accom- 
paniments — Bombardments perpetrated in 
the wings by the big bass drum, and both 
though symbolic, are about as unreal as pos- 
sible. 

Nobody is illusioned, no one complains. On 
the contrary, they seem delighted with the 
show they have paid to see. Furthermore, 
the better part of the audience is composed of 
soldiers, wounded men, convalescents, and per- 
missionaires, and they all know what to expect. 

Near me sat two of the latter — healthy look- 
ing lads, wind burned and tanned, their uni- 
forms sadly faded and stained, their helmets 
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scarred and indented. Both wore the Croix de 
Chierre, and the Fourragere or shoulder strap, 
showing the colours of the military medal, 
which at that time being quite a novelty, caught 
and held the eyes of all who surrounded them. 

From scraps of their conversation I learned 
that they had left the battle front of the 
Somme that very morning, were merely cross- 
ing Paris, taking a midnight train which would 
land them home some time the following day. 

I even managed to gather that their papers 
had reached them at the very moment when 
they came out of the trenches, that they had 
not even had time to brush up, so great was 
their fear of missing the last train. 

Less than twenty-four hours ago, then, they 
had really been in it — standing out there in 
the mud, surrounded by rats and the putrid 
odour of dead bodies, the prey not only of the 
elements, but of enemy bombs and shells, ex- 
pecting the end at any instant; or curled up, 
half frozen in a humid, slimy dug-out, not 
long enough to permit stretching out — scarcely 
deep enough to be called a shelter. 

Would they not be disgusted? Ready to 
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protest against this disfigured travesty of their 
war? 

I feel quite certain they never gave it a 
thought. Blissfully installed in their comfort- 
able orchestra seats they didn't intend to miss 
a word of the entire performance. And when 
finally in an endless chain of verses, a come- 
dian, mimicking a poilu with his kit on his back, 
recited his vicissitudes with the army police, 
and got mixed up in his interpretation of 
R.A.T., G.Q.G. — etc., they burst into round 
after round of applause, calling and recalling 
their favourite, while their sides shook with 
laughter, and the tears rolled down their 
cheeks. 

These same faces took on a nobly serious 
aspect, while a tall, pale, painted damsel 
draped in a peplum, evoked in ringing tones 
the glorious history of the tri-colour. I looked 
about me — many a manly countenance was 
wrinkled with emotion, and women on all sides 
sniffed audibly. It was then that I understood, 
as never before, what a philosopher friend calls 
"the force of symbols." 

An exact scenic reproduction of the war 
would have shocked all those good people; just 
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as this impossible theatrical deformation, this 
potpourri of songs, dances and orchestral 
tremolos charmed and delighted their care-sat- 
urated souls. 

Little girls in Alsatian costume, and the 
eternally sublime Red Cross nurse played upon 
their sentimentality; the slacker inspired them 
with disgust; they shrieked with delight at the 
nouveau riche; and their enthusiasm knew no 
bounds when towards eleven-fifteen arrived 
the "Stars and Stripes" accompanied by a 
double sextette of khaki-coloured female am- 
bulance drivers. Tradition has willed it thus. 

If the war continue any length of time 
doubtless the United States will also become 
infuriated with the slacker, and I tremble to 
think of the special brand of justice that 
woman in particular will have in store for the 
man who does not really go to the front, or 
who, thanks to intrigue and a uniform, is 
spending his days in peace and safety. 

Alas, there are embusques in all countries, 
just as there are nouveauw-riches. In Paris 
these latter are easily discernible. They have 
not yet had time to become accustomed to their 
new luxuries; especially the women, who wear 
[102] 




DOOR OF MADAME HUARD'S HOME — PARIS 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



exaggerated styles, and flaunt their furs and 
jewels, which deceive no one. 

"They buy everything, so long as it is ex- 
pensive," explained an antiquity dealer. "They 
want everything, and want it at once!" 

The few old artisans still to be found who 
are versed in the art of repairing antiques, are 
rushed to death, and their ill humour is almost 
comic, for in spite of the fact that they are 
being well paid for their work, they cannot 
bear to see these precious treasures falling into 
the hands of the vulgar. 

"This is for Mr. or Mrs. So-and-So," they 
inform you with an ironical smile, quite certain 
that you have never heard the name before. 

It would almost seem as if a vast wave of 
prosperity had. enveloped the country, were 
one to judge of the stories of millions made in 
a minute, fortunes sprung up over night, new 
factories erected where work never ceases; 
prices paid for real estate, monster strokes on 
the Bourse. Little wonder then that in May 
just past, with the Germans scarcely sixty 
miles from Paris, the sale of Degas' studio at- 
tained the extraordinary total of nearly two 
million dollars; an Ingres drawing which in 
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1889 brought eight hundred and fifty francs, 
selling for fourteen thousand, and a Greco por- 
trait for which Degas himself gave four hun- 
dred and twenty francs in 1894, fetching 
eighty-two thousand francs. 

Yes, such things happen even in France, and 
one hears but too often of fortunes accumu- 
lated in the past four years — ^but alas! how 
much more numerous are those which have been 
lost. The nouveauoo-pauvres far outnumber 
the nouveauw-riches; but these former seem to 
go into hiding. 

The Parisian bourgeois was essentially a 
property owner. His delight was in houses; 
the stone-front six-story kind, the serious rent- 
paying proposition, containing ten or a dozen 
moderate-priced apartments, and two good 
stores, from which he derived a comfortable 
income. Such was the ultimate desire of the 
little shop-keeper, desire which spurred him on 
to sell and to economise. 

A house, some French rentes, government 
bonds (chiefly Russian in recent years) and a 
few city obligations, were the extent of his in- 
vestments, and formed not only the nucleus 
but the better part of many a French fortune. 
[ 104 ] 



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Imagine then the predicament of such peo- 
ple under the moratorium. Few and far be- 
tween are the tenants who have paid a sou of 
rent since August, 1914, and the landlord has 
no power to collect. Add to this the ever in- 
creasing price of living, and you will under- 
stand why many an elderly Parisian who 
counted on spending his declining years in 
peace and plenty, is now hard at work earning 
his daily bread. 

Made in a moment of emergency, evidently 
with the intention that it be of short duration, 
this law about rentals has become the most per- 
plexing question in the world. Several at- 
tempts have been made towards a solution, 
but all have remained fruitless, unsanctioned; 
and the property owners are becoming anxious. 

That men who have been mobilised shall not 
pay — that goes without saying. But the oth- 
ers. How about them? 

I happen to know a certain house in a bour- 
geois quarter of the city about which I have 
very special reasons for being well informed. 

Both stores are closed. The one was occu- 
pied by a book-seller, the other by a boot- 
maker. Each dealer was called to the army, 
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and both of them have been killed. Their es- 
tates will not be settled until after the war. 

The first floor was rented to a middle-aged 
couple. The husband, professor in a city 
school, is now prisoner in Germany. His wife 
died during the Winter just passed. 

On the second landing one entered the home 
of a cashier in a big National Bank. He was 
the proud possessor of a wife and three pretty 
babies. The husband, aged thirty- two, left for 
the front with the rank of Lieutenant, the first 
day of the mobilisation. His bank kindly con- 
sented to continue half salary during the war. 
The lieutenant was killed at Verdun. His 
employers offered a year and a half's pay to 
the young widow— that is to say, about six 
thousand dollars, which she immediately in- 
vested in five per cent government rentes. A 
lieutenant's yearly pension amounts to about 
three hundred dollars, and the Legion of Hon-» 
our brings in fifty dollars per annum. 

They had scarcely had time to put anything 
aside, and I doubt if he carried a life insurance. 
At any rate the education of these little boys 
will take something more than can be econo- 
mised after the bare necessities of life have 
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been provided. So how is the brave little 
woman even to think of paying four years' 
rent, which when computed would involve 
more than two-thirds of her capital? 

The third floor tenant is an elderly lady who 
let herself be persuaded to put her entire in- 
come into bonds of the City of Vienna, Turkish 
debt, Russian roubles, and the like. I found 
her stewing up old newspapers in a greasy 
liquid, preparing thus a kind of briquette, the 
only means of heating which she could afford. 
lYet the prospect of a Winter without coal, 
possibly without bread, did not prevent her 
from welcoming me with a smile, and explain- 
ing her case with grace and distinction, which 
denoted the most exquisite breeding. Her 
maid, she apologised as she bowed me out, was 
ill of rheumatism contracted during the pre- 
ceding Winter. 

The top apartment was occupied by a gov- 
ernment functionary and his family. As cap- 
tain in the infantry he has been at the front 
since the very beginning. His wife's family 
are from Lille, and like most pre-nuptial ar- 
rangements when the father is in business, the 
daughter received but the income of her dowry, 
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which joined to her husband's salary permitted 
a cheerful, pleasant home, and the prospect of 
an excellent education for the children. 

The salary ceased with the Captain's depart- 
ure to the front; the wife's income stopped 
when the Germans entered Lille a few weeks 
later. They now have but his officer's pay, 
approximately eighty dollars per month, as en- 
tire financial resource. Add to this the death 
of a mother and four splendid brothers, the 
constant menace of becoming a widow, and I 
feel certain that the case will give food for re- 
flection. 

All these unfortunate women know each 
other; have guessed their mutual misfortunes, 
though, of course, they never mention them. 
Gathered about a single open fire-place whose 
welcome blaze is the result of their united econ- 
omy, they patiently ply their needles at what- 
ever handiwork they are most deft, beading 
bags, making filet and mesh laces, needle-work 
tapestry and the like, utilising every spare mo- 
ment, in the hope of adding another sKce of 
bread to the already too frugal meals. 

But orders are rare, and openings for such 
work almost nil. To obtain a market would 
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demand business training which has not been 
part of their tradition, which while it tempts, 
both intimidates and revolts them. Certain 
desperate ones would branch out in spite of all 
— but they do not know how, dare not seem so 
bold. 

And so Winter will come anew — Winter 
with bread and sugar rations at a maximumy 
Winter with meat prices soaring far above 
their humble pocket books. 

Soup and vegetable stews quickly become 
the main article of diet. Each succeeding year 
the little mothers have grown paler, and more 
frail. The children have lost their fat, rosy 
cheeks. But let even a local success crown 
our arms, let the communique bring a little bit 
of real news, tell of fresh laurels won, let even 
the faintest ray of hope for the great final tri- 
umph pierce this veil of anxiety — and every 
heart beat quickens, the smiles burst forth ; lips 
tremble with emotion. These people know the 
price, and the privilege of being French, the 
glory of belonging to that holy nation. 



[ 109 ] 



When after a lengthy search our friends 
finally discover our Parisian residence, one of 
the first questions they put is, "Why on earth 
is your street so narrow?" 

The reason is very simple. Merely because 
la rue GeoiFroy L'Asnier was built before car- 
riages were invented, the man who gave it its 
name having doubtless dwelt there during tha 
fourteenth or fifteenth century, as one could 
easily infer after inspecting the choir of our 
parish church. But last Good Friday, the 
Germans in trying out their super-cannon, 
bombarded St. Gervais. The roof caved in, 
killing and wounding many innocent persons, 
and completely destroying that choir. 

Elsewhere a panic might have ensued, but 
residents of our quarter are not so easily dis- 
turbed. The older persons distinctly recall the 
burning of the Hotel de Ville and the Arch- 
bishop's Palace in 1870. And did they not wit- 
ness the battles in the streets, all the horrors of 

[ no ] 



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the Commune, after having experienced the 
agonies and privations of the Siege ? I have no 
doubt that among them there are persons who 
were actually reduced to eating rats, and I feel 
quite certain that many a man used his gun to 
advantage from between the shutters of his 
own front window. 

Their fathers had seen the barricades of 
1848 and 1830, their grandfathers before them 
the Reign of Terror — and so on one might con-« 
tinue as far back as the Norman invasion. 

The little cafe on the rue du Pont Louis- 
Philippe serves as meeting place for all the 
prophets and strategists of the quarter, who 
have no words sufficient to express their dis- 
dain for the Kaiser's heavy artillery. 

"It's all bluff, they think they can frighten 
us! Why, I, Madame, I who am speaking to 
you — I saw the Hotel de Ville, the Theatre 
des Nations, the grain elevators, all in flames 
and all at once, the whole city seemed to be 
ablaze. Well, do you think that prevented 
the Parisians from fishing in the Seine, or 
made this cafe shut its doors? There was a 
barricade at either end of this street — the 
blinds were up and you could hear the bullets 

[111] 



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patter against them. The insurgents, all cov- 
ered with powder, would sneak over and get a 
drink — and when finally their barricade was 
taken, it was the Republican soldiers who sat 
in our chairs and drank beer and lemonade! 
Their guns, humph! Let them bark!" 

It is at this selfsame cafe that gather all the 
important men of our district, much as the 
American would go to his club. They are se- 
rious bourgeois, well along in the fifties, just 
a trifle ridiculous, perhaps on account of their 
allure and their attire. But should one grow 
to know them better he would soon realise that 
most of them are shrewd, hard-working busi- 
ness men, each burdened with an anxiety or a 
sorrow which he never mentions. 

They too love strategy. Armies represented 
by match safes, dominoes and toothpicks have 
become an obsession — their weakness. They 
are thorough Frenchmen and their critical 
sense must be unbridled. They love their ideas 
and their systems. They would doubtless not 
hesitate to advise Foch. Personally, if I were 
Foch, I should turn a deaf ear. But if I were 
a timid, vacillating, pessimistic spirit, still in 
doubt as to the final outcome, I should most 
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certainly seat myself at a neighbouring table 
and listen to their conversation that I might 
come away imbued with a little of their pa- 
tience, abnegation, and absolute confidence. 

Nor does the feminine opinion deviate from 
this course. I found the same ideas prevalent 
in the store of a little woman who sold umbrel- 
las. Before the war Madame Coutant had a 
very flourishing trade, but now her sales are 
few and far between, while her chief occupa- 
tion is repairing. She is a widow without chil- 
dren, and no immediate relative in the war. 
Because of this, at the beginning she was 
looked down upon and her situation annoyed 
and embarrassed her greatly. But by dint of 
search, a most voluminous correspondence, and 
perhaps a little bit of intrigue, she finally man- 
aged to unearth two very distant cousins, peas- 
ant boys from the Cevennes, whom she frankly 
admitted never having seen, but to whom she 
regularly sent packages and post cards ; about 
whom she was at liberty to speak without 
blushing, since one of them had recently been 
cited for bravery and decorated with the Croix 
de Gruerre. 

This good woman devotes all the leisure and 
[113] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



energy her trade leaves her, to current events. 
Of course, there is the official communiqtie 
which may well be considered as the national 
health bulletin; but besides that, there is still 
another, quite as indispensable and fully as in- 
teresting, made up of the criticism of local 
happenings, and popular presumption. 

This second communique comes to us direct 
from Madame Coutant's, where a triumvirate 
composed of the scissors-grinder, the woman- 
who-rents-chairs-in-St.-Gervais, the sacristan's 
wife, the concierge of the Girls' School, and the 
widow of an office boy in the City Hall, get 
their heads together and dispense the news. 

The concierges and cooks while out market- 
ing, pick it up and start it on its rounds. 

"We are progressing North of the Marne"; 
"Two million Americans have landed in 
France," and similar statements shall be ac- 
cepted only when elucidated, enlarged and em- 
bellished by Madame Coutant's group. Each 
morning brings a fresh harvest of happenings, 
but each event is certified or contradicted by a 
statement from some one who is "Out there," 
and sees and knows. 

Under such circumstances an attack ivy 
[ 114 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



Champagne may be viewed from a very differ- 
ent angle when one hears that Bultot, the elec^ 
trician, is telephone operator in that region; 
that the aforesaid Bultot has written to his 
wife in most ambiguous phraseology, and that 
she has brought the letter to Madame Cou- 
tant's for interpretation. 

But it is more especially the local moral 
standards which play an important part and 
are subject to censorship in Madame Coutant's 
circle. The individual conduct of the entire 
quarter is under the most rigid observation. 
Lives must be pure as crystal, homes of glass. 
It were better to attempt to hide nothing. 

That Monsieur L., the retired druggist, is 
in sad financial straits, there is not the slightest 
doubt; no one is duped by the fact that he is 
trying to put on a bold face under cover of 
war-time economy. 

That the grocer walks with a stick and drags 
his leg on the ground to make people think 
he is only fit for the auxiliary service, deceives 
no one ; his time will come, there is but to wait. 

Let a woman appear with an unaccustomed 
furbelow, or a family of a workman that is 
earning a fat salary, eat two succulent dishes 
[ 115 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



the same week, public opinion will quickly 
make evident its sentiments, and swiftly put 
things to rights. 

The war must be won, and each one must 
play his part — do his bit, no matter how hum- 
ble. The straight and narrow paths of virtue 
have been prescribed and there is no better 
guide than the fear of mutual criticism. That 
is one reason why personally I have never 
sought to ignore Madame Coutant's opinion. 

It goes without saying that the good soul 
has attributed the participation of the United 
States in this war entirely to my efforts. And 
the nature of the advice that I am supposed to 
have given President Wilson would make an 
everlasting fortune for a humourist. But in 
spite of it all, I am proud to belong to them 5 
proud of being an old resident in their quarter. 

"Strictly serious people," was the opinion 
passed upon us by the sacristan's wife for the 
edification of my new housemaid. 

It is a most interesting population to exam- 
ine in detail, made up of honest, skilful Pa- 
risian artisans, frondeurs at heart, jesting 
with everything, but terribly ticklish on the 
point of honour. 

[116] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"They ask us to 'hold out'," exclaims the 
laundress of the rue de Jouy; "as if we'd ever 
done anything else all our lives !" 

These people were capable of the prodigious. 
They have achieved the miraculous ! 

With the father gone to the front, his pay- 
roll evaporated, it was a case of stop and think. 
Of course, there was the "Separation fee," 
about twenty-five cents a day for the mother, 
ten cents for each child. The French pri- 
vate received but thirty cents a month at the 
beginning 'of the war. The outlook was any- 
thing but cheerful, the possibility of making 
ends meet more than doubtful. So work it was 
— or rather, extra work. Eyes were turned to- 
wards the army as a means of livelihood. With 
so many millions mobilised, the necessity for 
shirts, underwear, uniforms, etc., became evi- 
dent. 

Three or four mothers grouped together 
and made application for three or four hun- 
dred shirts. The mornings were consecrated 
to house work, which must be done in spite of 
all, the children kept clean and the food well 
prepared. But from one o'clock until mid- 
[117] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



night much might be accomplished; and much 
was. 

The ordinary budget for a woman of the 
working class consists in earning sufficient to 
feed, clothe, light and heat the family, besides 
supplying the soldier husband with tobacco and 
a monthly parcel of goodies. Even the 
children have felt the call, and after school, 
which lasts from eight until four, little girls 
whose legs must ache from dangling, sit pa- 
tiently on chairs removing bastings, or sewing 
on buttons, while their equally tiny brothers 
run errands, or watch to see that the soup does 
not boil over. 

Then when all is done, when with all one's 
heart one has laboured and paid everything 
and there remains just enough to send a 
money-order to the poilu, there is still a happi- 
ness held in reserve — a dehght as keen as any 
one can feel in such times ; i.e., the joy of know- 
ing that the "Separation fee" has not been 
touched. It is a really and truly income; it 
is a dividend as sound as is the State! It has 
almost become a recompense. 

What matter now the tears, the mortal anx- 
[118] 




VIEW OF ST. GERVAIS FROM MADAME 
HUARD'S PARIS HOME 
(bombarded by GERMAN SUPER 
CANNON, APRIL, 1918) 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



ieties that it may have cost? For once again, 
to quote the laundress of the rue de Jouy — 

"Trials? Why, we'd have had them any- 
way, even if there hadn't been a war!" 

In these times of strictest economy, it would 
perhaps be interesting to go deeper into the 
ways of those untiring thrifty ants who seem 
to know how "To cut a centime in four" and 
extract the quintessence from a bone. My 
concierge is a precious example for such a 
study, having discovered a way of bleaching 
clothes without boiling, and numerous recipes 
for reducing the high cost of living to almost 
nothing. 

It was in her lodge that I was first intro- 
duced to a drink made from ash leaves, and 
then tasted another produced by mixing hops 
and violets, both to me being equally as pal- 
atable as certain brands of grape juice. 

Butter, that unspeakable luxury, she had re- 
placed by a savoury mixture of tried out 
fats from pork and beef kidney, seasoned with 
salt, pepper, allspice, thyme and laurel, into 
which at coohng was stirred a glass of milk. 
Not particularly palatable on bread but as a 
seasoning to vegetable soup, that mighty 
[119] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



French stand-by, I found it most excellent. 
Believe me, I've tried it! 

Jam has long been prepared with honey, and 
for all other sweetening purposes she used a 
syrup of figs that was not in the least disagree- 
able. The ration of one pound of sugar per 
person a month, and brown sugar at that, does 
not go very far. 

The cold season is the chief preoccupation of 
all Parisians, and until one has spent a war 
winter in the capital he is incapable of realis- 
ing what can be expected from a scuttle full of 
coal. 

First of all, one commences by burning it 
for heating purposes, rejoicing in every second 
of its warmth and glow. One invites one's 
friends to such a gala! Naturally the coal 
dust has been left at the bottom of the recipient, 
the sack in which it was delivered is well shaken 
for stray bits, and this together with the sift- 
ings is mixed with potter's clay and sawdust, 
which latter has become a most appreciable 
possession in our day. The whole is then 
stirred together and made into bricks or balls, 
which though they burn slowly, burn surely. 

The residue of this combustible is still so 
[120] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



precious, that when gathered up, ground anew 
with paper and sawdust, and at length amalga- 
mated with a mucilaginous water composed of 
soaked flax-seed, one finally obtains a kind of 
pulp that one tries vainly to make ignite, but 
which obstinately refuses to do so, though ex- 
amples to the contrary have been heard of. 

The fireless cooker has opened new horizons, 
for, of course, there is still enough gas to start 
the heating. Eut none but the wealthy can af- 
ford such extravagance, so each one has in- 
vented his own model. My concierge's husband 
is renowned for his ingenuity in this particular 
branch, and people from the other side of the 
Isle St. Louis, or the rue St. Antoine take the 
time to come and ask his advice. It seems to 
me he can make fireless cookers out of almost 
anything. Antiquated wood chests, hat boxes, 
and even top hats themselves have been utilised 
in his constructions. 

"These are real savings-banks for heat" — ^he 
explains pompously — for he loves to tackle 
the difficult — even adjectively. His shiny bald 
pate is scarce covered by a Belgian fatigTie cap, 
whose tassel bobs in the old man's eyes, and 
when he carried his long treasured gold to the 
[121] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



bank, he refused to take its equivalent in notes. 
It was necessary to have recourse to the princi- 
pal cashier, who assured him that if France 
needed money she would call upon him first. 
Then and then only would he consent to accept. 

He is a Lorrainer — a true Frenchman, who 
in the midst of all the sorrows brought on by 
the conflict, has known two real joys: the first 
when his son was promoted and made lieuten- 
ant on the battle field; the second when his 
friends the Vidalenc and the Lemots made up a 
quarrel that had lasted over twelve years. 

"I was in a very embarrassing position," he 
explained, "for I held both famihes in equal 
esteem. Fortunately the war came and settled 
matters. When I say fortunately, of course, 
you understand, Madame, what I mean. 'A 
quelquechose malheur est bon/ " 

And in truth the original cause of difference 
between the Lemots, drapers, and the Vidalenc, 
coal and wood dealers, had been lost in the 
depths of time. But no hate between Mon- 
tague and Capulet was ever more bitter. The 
gentle flame of antipathy was constantly kept 
kindled by a glance in passing, a half audible 
sneer, and if the Vidalenc chose the day of the 
[122] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



White Sale to hang out and beat their stock 
of coal sacks, one might be certain that the 
Lemots would be seized with a fit of cleanliness 
on the coldest of winter days, and would play 
the hose up and down the street in the freezing 
air about an hour or so before the Vidalencs 
would have to unload their coal wagons. 

The younger generation, on leaving school 
every afternoon, would also see to it that the 
family feud be properly recognised, and many 
and bitter were the mutual pummelings. 

Reconciliation seemed an impossibility, and 
yet both were hardworking, honest families, 
economical and gracious, rejoicing in the 
friendship of the entire quarter, who, of course, 
were much pained by the situation. 

Even the mobilisation failed to bring a truce 
and the unforgettable words of "Sacred 
Unity" fell upon arid ground. 

But how strange, mysterious and far reach- 
ing are the designs of Providence. Young 
Vidalenc was put into a regiment that was 
brigaded with the one to which belonged Mon- 
sieur Lemot. 

The two men met ''Out there," and literally 
fell into each other's arms. 
[123] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



A letter containing a description of this 
event arrived in the two shops at ahnost the 
same moment. That is to say the postman first 
went to Father Vidalenc's, but by the time the 
old man had found his spectacles, Madame 
Lemot had received her missive, and both were 
practically read at once. Then came the dash 
for the other's shop, the paper waving wildly 
in the air. 

Of course, they met in the street, stopped 
short, hesitated, collapsed, wept and embraced, 
to the utter amazement of the entire quarter 
who feared not only that something fatal had 
happened, but also for their mental safety. 

Later in the day the news got abroad, and 
by nightfall every one had heard that Father 
Vidalenc had washed Madame Lemot's store 
windows, and that Madame Lemot had prom- 
ised to have an eye to Vidalenc's accounts, 
which had been somewhat abandoned since the 
departure of his son. 

When Lemot returned on furlough there 
was a grand dinner given in his honour at 
iVidalenc's, and when Vidalenc dined at Le- 
mot's, it was assuredly amusing to see the lat- 
ter's children all togged out in their Sunday 
[124] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



best, a tri-colour bouquet in hand, waiting on 
their doorstep to greet and conduct the old 
man. 

Unfortunately there was no daughter to give 
in matrimony so that they might marry and 
live happily ever after. But on my last trip 
home I caught a glimpse of an unknown girlish 
face behind Madame Lemot's counter, and 
somebody told me it was her niece. 

It would not only be unfair, but a gross er- 
ror on my part to attempt to depict life in our 
quarter without mentioning one of the most 
notable inhabitants — namely Monsieur Alex- 
andre Clouet, taylor, so read the sign over the 
door of the shop belonging to this pompous 
little person — ^who closed that shop on August 
2nd, 1914, and ralHed to the colours. But un- 
like the vulgar herd he did not scribble in huge 
chalk letters all over the blinds — "The boss has 
joined the army." No, indeed, not he! 

Twenty four hours later appeared a most 
elaborate meticulous sign which announced: 

Monsieur Clouet 

wishes to inform his numerous cus- 
tomers that he has joined the ranks 
[125] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



of the 169th infantry, and shall do 
his duty as a Frenchman. 

His wife returned to her father's home, and 
it was she who pasted up the series of neat 
little bulletins. First we read: 

Monsieur Clouet 

is in the trenches but his health is 
excellent. 

He begs his customers and friends 
to send him news of themselves. 
Postal Sector 24X. 

I showed the little sign to my friends who 
grew to take an interest in Monsieur Clouet's 
personal welfare, and passing by his shop they 
would copy down the latest news and forward 
it to me, fii'st at Villiers, and afterwards to the 
States. 

It is thus that I learned that Monsieur 
Clouet, gloriously wounded, had been cared for 
at a hospital in Cahors, and later on that he 
had recovered, rejoined his depot and finally 
returned to the front. 

One of my first outings during my last trip 
sent me in the direction of Monsieur Clouet's 
abode. I was decidedly anxious to know what 
[ 1*26 ] 



A\^ITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



had become of him. To my surprise I found 
the shop open, but a huge announcement hung 
just above the entrance. 

Monsieur Clouet 

gloriously wounded and decorated 
with the Mihtary Medal, regrets to 
state that in future it will be impos- 
sible for him to continue giving his 
personal attention to his business. 

His wife and his father-in-law will 
hereafter combine their efforts to give 
every satisfaction to his numerous 
customers. 

I entered. For the moment the wife and 
the father-in-law were combining their efforts 
to convince a very stout, elderly gentleman 
that check trousers would make him look like 
a sylph. 

"Ah, Madame, what a surprise," she cried, 
on seeing me. 

"But your husband?" I queried. "Is it 
really serious — do tell me !" 

"Alas, Madame, he says he'll never put his 
foot in the shop again. You see he's very sen- 
sitive since he was scalped, and he's afraid 
somebody might know he has to wear a wig!" 
[127] 



VI 



The Boche aeroplane was by no means a 
novelty to the Parisian. Its first apparitions 
over the capital (1914) were greeted with curi- 
ous enthusiasm, and those who did not have a 
field glass handy at the time, later on satisfied 
their curiosity by a visit to the Invalides, where 
every known type of enemy machine was dis- 
played in the broad court-yard. 

The first Zeppelin raid (April 15th, 1915)' 
happened toward midnight, and resulted in 
a good many casualties, due not to the bombs 
dropped by the enemy, but to the number of 
colds and cases of pneumonia and bronchitis 
caught by the pa jama-clad Parisian, who 
rushed out half covered, to see the sight, 
thoughtlessly banging his front door behind 
him. 

But the first time that we were really driven 

to take shelter in the cellar was after dinner at 

the home of a friend who lives in an apartment 

house near the Avenue du Bois. We were en- 

[ 128 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



joying an impromptu concert of chamber 
music, when the alarm was given, swiftly fol- 
lowed by distant but very distinct detonations, 
which made hesitation become imprudence. 

The descent to the basement was accom- 
plished without undue haste, or extraordinary 
commotion, save for an old Portuguese lady 
and her daughter who lost their heads and un- 
consciously gave us a comic interlude, worthy 
of any first-class movie. 

Roused from her sleep, the younger woman 
with self preservation uppermost in her mind, 
had slipped on an outer garment, grabbed the 
first thing she laid her hands on, and with hair 
streaming over her back, dashed down five long 
flights of stairs. 

At the bottom she remembered her mother, 
let forth an awful shriek, and still holding her 
bottle of tooth wash in her hands, jumped into 
the lift and started in search of her parent. 

In the meantime, the latter on finding her 
daughter's bed empty, had started towards the 
lower floors, crossing the upward bound lift, 
which Mademoiselle was unable to stop. 

Screams of terror, excited sentences in 
Portuguese — in which both gave directions that 
[129] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



neither followed, and for a full ten minutes 
mother and daughter raced up and down in the 
lift and on the stairway, trying vainly to join 
one another. 

A young lieutenant home on leave, at length 
took pity on them and finally united the two 
exhausted creatures who fell into each other's 
arms shrieking hysterically: 

"If we must die — let us die together!" 

The concierges and the servants began ar- 
ranging chairs and camp stools around the 
furnace; the different tenants introduced them- 
selves and their guests. Almost every one was 
still about when the signal was given, and this 
cellar where the electric lamps burned brightly 
soon took on the aspect of a drawing-room, in 
spite of all. One lone man, however, stood dis- 
consolate, literally suffocating beneath a huge 
cavalry cape, hooked tight up to his throat. As 
the perspiration soon began rolling from his 
forehead, a friend seeking to put him at his 
ease, suggested he open up his cloak. 

The gentleman addressed cast a glance over 
the assembled group, broadened out into a 
smile, and exclaimed — 

[130] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"I can't. Only got my night shirt under- 
neath." 

The hilarity was general, and the conversa- 
tion presently became bright and sparkling 
with hmnorous anecdotes. 

The officers held their audience spellbound 
with fear and admiration; the women talked 
hospital and dress, dress and hospital, finally 
jesting about the latest restrictions. One lady 
told the story of a friend who engaged a maid, 
on her looks and without a reference, the which 
maid shortly became a menace because of her 
propensity for dropping and breaking china. 

One day, drawn towards the pantry by the 
sound of a noise more terrible than any yet 
experienced, she found the girl staring at a 
whole pile of plates — ten or a dozen — ^which 
had slipped from her fingers and lay in thou- 
sands of pieces on the floor. 

The lady became indignant and scolded. 

"Ah, if Madame were at the front, she'd see 
worse than that!" was the consoling response. 

"But we're not at the front, I'll have you 
understand, and what's more neither you nor I 
have ever been there, my girl." 

"I beg Madame's pardon, but my last place 
[131] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



was in a hospital at Verdun, as Madame will 
see when my papers arrive." 

General laughter was cut short by the sound 
of two explosions. 

"They're here. They've arrived. It will 
soon be over now," and like commentaries were 
added. 

A servant popped the cork of a champagne 
bottle, and another passed cakes and candied 
fruit. 

An elderly man who wore a decoration, ap- 
proached the officers. 

"Gentlemen," said he, "excuse me for inter- 
ruptingp but do any of you know the exact 
depth to which an aeroplane bomb can pene- 
trate?" 

The officers gave him a few details, wnich, 
however, did not seem to satisfy the old fellow. 
His anxiety became more and more visible. 

"I wouldn't worry, sir, if I were you. There's 
absolutely no danger down here." 

"Thank you for your assurance, Messieurs," 
said he, "but I'm not in the least anxious about 
my personal safety. It's my drawings and my 
collection of porcelains that are causing me 
such concern. I thought once that I'd box 
[ 132 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



them all up and bring them down here. But 
you never can tell what dampness or change 
of temperature might do to a water colour or 
a gouache. Oh! my poor Fragonards! My 
poor Bouchers! Gentlemen, never, never col- 
lect water colours or porcelains ! Take it from 
me!" 

At that moment the bugle sounded — "All's 
well," and as we were preparing to mount the 
stairs, the old man accosted the officers anew, 
asking them for the titles of some books on 
artillery and fortification. 

"That all depends to what use you wish to 
apply them." 

"Ah, it's about protecting my collection. I 
simply must do something ! I can't send them 
to storage, they wouldn't be any safer there, 
and even if they were I'd die of anxiety so far 
away from my precious belongings." 

"Good-nights" were said in the vestibule, 
and the gathering dispersed just as does any 
group of persons after a theatre or an ordinary 
reception. But once in the street, it was ab- 
solutely useless to even think of a taxi. Peo- 
ple were pouring from every doorway, heads 
stuck out of every window. 
[133] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"Where did they faU? Which way?" 
In the total obscurity, the sound of feet all 
hurrying in the same direction, accompanied 
by shouts of recognition, even ripples of laugh- 
ter, seemed strangely gruesome, as the caravan 
of curious hastened towards the scene of 
tragedy. 

"No crowds allowed. Step lively," called 
the sergeants-de-ville, at their wits' end. "Bet- 
ter go back home, they might return. Step 
lively, I say!" 



It happened thus the first few visits, but 
presently the situation became less humorous. 
One began to get accustomed to it. Then one 
commenced to dislike it and protest. 

Seated by the studio fire, we were both 
plunged deep in our books. 

''Allonsr exclaimed H. "Do you hear the 
'pompiers? The Gothas again!" 

We stiffened up in our chairs and listened. 
The trumpets sounded shrilly on the night air 
of our tranquil Parisian quarter. 

"Right you are. That means down we go! 
They might have waited until I finished my 
[134] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



chapter, hang them! There's no electricity in 
our cellar," and I cast aside my book in dis- 
gust. 

Taking our coats and a steamer rug we pre- 
pared to descend. In the court-yard the clat- 
ter of feet resounded. 

The cellar of our seventeenth century dwell- 
ing being extremely deep and solidly built, was 
at once commandeered as refuge for one hun- 
dred persons in case of bombardment, and we 
must needs share it with some ninety odd less 
fortunate neighbours. 

"Hurry up there. Hurry up, I say," calls 
a sharp nasal voice. 

That voice belonged to Monsieur Leddin, 
formerly a clock maker, but now of the Serv- 
ice Auociliare, and on whom devolved the po- 
licing of our entire little group, simply because 
of his uniform. 

His observations, however, have but little 
effect. People come straggling along, yawn- 
ing from having been awakened in their first 
sleep, and almost all of them is hugging a 
bundle or parcel containing his most precious 
belongings. 

It is invariably an explosion which finally 
[135] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



livens their gait, and they hurry into the stair- 
way. A shght jam is thus produced. 

"No pushing there! Order!" cries another 
stentorian voice, belonging to Monsieur Vidal- 
enc, the coal dealer. 

"Here! here!" echo several high pitched 
trebles. ''Tres hien, tres bien. Follow in line 
— what's the use of crowding?" 

Monsieur Leddin makes another and still 
shriller effort, calling from above: 

"Be calm now. Don't get excited." 

"Who's excited?" 

"You are!" 

"Monsieur Leddin, you're about as fit to be 
a soldier as I to be an Archbishop," sneered the 
butcher's wife. "You'd do better to leave us 
alone and hold your peace." 

General hilarity, followed by murmurs of 
approval from various other females, which 
completely silenced Monsieur Leddin, who 
never reopened his mouth during the entire 
evening, so that one could not tell whether he 
was nursing his offended dignity or hiding his 
absolute incompetence to assume authority. 

Places were quickly found on two or three 
long wooden benches, and a few chairs pro- 
[136] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



vided for the purpose, some persons even 
spreading out blankets and camping on the 
floor. 

The raiment displayed was the typical neg- 
ligee of the Parisian working class; a dark 
coloured woollen dressing gown, covered over 
with a shawl or a cape, all the attire showing 
evidence of having been hastily donned with no 
time to think of looking in the mirror. 

An old lantern and a kerosene lamp but 
dimly lighted the groups which were shrouded 
in deep velvety shadows. 

Presently a man, a man that I had never 
seen before, a man with a long emaciated face 
and dark pointed beard, rose in the back- 
ground, holding a blanket draped about him 
by flattening his thin white hand against his 
breast. The whole scene seemed almost bib- 
lical, and instantly my mind evoked Rem- 
brandt's masterpiece — the etching called 'The 
Hundred Florin Piece,' which depicts the 
crowds seated about the standing figure of our 
Saviour and listening to His divine words. 

But the spell was quickly broken when an 
instant later my vision coughed and called — 
[137] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"Josephine, did you bring down the 'Petit 
Parisien,' as I told you?" 

Ten or fifteen minutes elapsed, and then a 
rather distant explosion gave us reason to be- 
lieve that the enemy planes were retiring. 

'' Jamais de la vie! No such luck to-night. 
Why we've got a good couple of hours ahead of 
us, just like last time. You'll see! Much bet- 
ter to make yourself as comfortable as possible 
and not lose any sleep over it." 

The tiny babies had scarcely waked at all, 
and peacefully continued to slumber on their 
mothers' knees, or on improvised cots made 
from a blanket or comforter folded to several 
thicknesses. 

The women soon yawned, and leaning their 
backs against the wall nodded regularly in 
spite of their efforts not to doze off, and each 
time, surprised by the sudden shock of awaken- 
ing would shudder and groan unconsciously. 

Tightly clasped in their hands, or on the 
floor between their feet lay a bag which never 
got beyond their reach, to which they clung as 
something sacred. Certain among them were 
almost elegant in their grey linen covers. 
Others had seen better days, while still others 
[138] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



dated back to the good old times of needlework 
tapestry. There were carpet, kit and canvas 
bags, little wooden chests with leather handles, 
and one poor old creature carefully harboured 
a card-board box tied about with a much 
knotted string. 

What did they all contain? In France amid 
such a gathering it were safe to make a guess. 

First of all, the spotless family papers — 
cherished documents registering births, deaths 
and marriages. A lock of hair, a baby tooth, 
innumerable faded photographs, a bundle of 
letters, a scrap of paper whereon are scrawled 
the last words of a departed hero, and way 
down underneath, neatly separated from all 
the rest, I feel quite sure the little family 
treasure lies hidden. Yes, here is that hand- 
ful of stocks and bonds, thanks to which their 
concierge bows to them with respect; those 
earnings that permit one to fall ill, to face old 
age and death without apprehension, the assur- 
ance the children shall want for nothing, shall 
have a proper education — the certitude that the 
two little rooms occupied can really be called 
home; that the furniture so carefully waxed 
and polished is one's own forever. Bah! what 
[139] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



terrors can lack of work, food shortage, or war 
hold for such people? Thus armed can they 
not look the horrid spectres square in the 
face? The worst will cost but one or two blue 
bank notes borrowed from the little pile, but 
because of the comfort they have brought they 
will be replaced all the more gayly when bet- 
ter days shall come. 

All this ran through my brain as I watched 
those hands — big and small, fat and thin, 
young and old, clasping their treasure so 
tightly, and I couldn't help feeling that gi- 
gantic convulsive gesture of thousands of other 
women, who all over the great Capital at that 
same moment were hugging so lovingly their 
little all ; the fruit of so much toil and so much 
virtue. 

My reflections were cut short by q, deafening 
noise that roused my sleeping companions. 
The children shrieked, and the women openly 
lamented. 

"That was a close call," commented Mon- 
sieur Neu, our concierge. 

Five or six boys wanted to rush out and 
see where the bomb had fallen. They were dis- 
suaded, but with difficulty. 
[ 140 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



An elderly man had taken his six year old 
grandson on to his knee, and that sleepy little 
Parisian urchin actually clapped his hands and 
crowed over the shock. 

"Jiminy, that was a fine one!" 

"That's right, my child," pompously ex- 
claimed the grandsire. "Never, never forget 
the monsters who troubled your innocent sleep 
with their infamous crimes." 

"Oh, cut it out, grandpop," was the some- 
what irreverent reply. "Aren't you afraid 
you might miss forty winks?" and then turning 
to his mother, "I say, mamma, if one of them 
lands on our house, you promise you'll wake 
me up, won't you? I want to see everything, 
and last time and the time before, I missed 
it!" 

"Yes, darling, of course, but go to sleep, 
there's a good boy." 

A tall, good-looking girl over in one corner 
openly gave vent to her sentiments. 

"The idiots ! the idiots ! if they think they can 
scare us that way ! They'd far better not waste 
their time, and let us sleep. It isn't a bit funny 
any more, and I've got to work just the same 
to-morrow, Boche or no Boche!" 
[141] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



Two rickety old creatures clasped each other 
in arms, and demanded in trembling voices if 
there was any real danger! This produced a 
ripple of merriment. 

Monsieur Duplan, the butcher, then asked 
the ladies' permission to smoke, the which 
permission was graciously accorded. 

"Why, if I'd only thought, I'd have 
brought down another lamp and my work. 
It's too bad to waste so much time." 

"I have my knitting. You don't need any 
light for that." 

"Where on earth did you get wool? How 
lucky you are !" 

From Monsieur Leddin's lips now rose a 
loud and sonorous snore. 

"Decidedly that man is possessed of all the 
charms," giggled a sarcastic neighbour. 

"Yes, it must be a perfect paradise to live 
with such an angel, and to feel that you've got 
him safe at home till the end of the war. I 
don't wonder his poor little wife took the 
children and went to Burgundy." 

"Why isn't he at the front?" hissed some 
one in a whisper. 

"Yes— why?" 

[142] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"There are lots less healthy men than he out 
there. The fat old plumber who lived on the 
rue de Jouy, and who can hardly breathe, was 
taken- " 

*'And the milkman who passed a hundred 
and three medical inspections and finally had 
to go." 

"If you think my husband is overstrong, 
you're mistaken." 

"And mine, Madame, how about him?" 

Something told me that Monsieur Leddin's 
fate was hanging in the balance on this event- 
ful evening. 

"Shake him up. Monsieur Neu, he doesn't 
need to sleep if we can't. We've all got to 
work to-morrow and he can take a nice long 
nap at his desk." 

"Oh, leave him alone," put in Monsieur Lau- 
rent, the stationer, who was seated near me. 
"Just listen to those fiendish women. Why 
they're worse than we are about the slackers. 
After all, I keep telling them there must be a 
few, otherwise who's going to write history? 
And history's got to be written, hasn't it?" 

"Most decidedly," I replied. 

And having at length found a subject of 
[143] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



conversation that I had deigned approve, he 
continued, 

"Just think of what all the poor kids in gen- 
erations to come will have to cram into their 
heads 1 The names of all the battles on all the 
Fronts and the dates. It makes me dizzy! 
I'm glad it's not up to me. I like history all 
well enough, but I'd rather make it than have 
to learn it." 

Monsieur Laurent did not speak lightly. 
He had veritably helped to make history, hav- 
ing left his right foot and part of his leg "Out 
there" on the hills of Verdun. 

I asked him how he was getting along since 
his return. 

"Better than ever! Excellent appetite — ■ 
never a cold — never an ill. I'll soon be as spry 
as a rabbit. Why, I used to be too heavy, I al- 
ways fell asleep after luncheon. That cam- 
paign set my blood to rights. I'm ten years 
younger," he exclaimed, pounding his chest. 

"That's a good strong-box, isn't it?" and he 
coughed loudly to thoroughly convince of its 
solidity. 

"France can still count on me! I was ready 
for war, and I shall be prepared for peace." 
[ 144 ] 




THE COURTYARD LEADING TO 
MADAME HUARD'S CELLAR 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"Just wait till it gets here," murmured some 
woman. 

"It'll come, it's bound to come some time," 
he cried, evidently pursuing a favourite theme. 
"And we'll like it all the better for having 
waited so long." 

Monsieur Laurent has firm faith in the im- 
mediate business future. 

'''Voila! all we've got to do is to lay Ger- 
many out flat. Even then the economical 
struggle that will follow the war will be ter- 
rible," he prophesies. "The French must come 
to the fore with all the resources of their na- 
tional genius. As to myself, I have my own 
idea on the subject." 

We were fairly drinking in his words. 

"You've all doubtless seen the sign that I 
put up in my window?" 

We acquiesced. 

"Well, it was that sign that opened my 
eyes." 

I was all attention by this time, for I dis- 
tinctly remembered the above mentioned sign. 
It had puzzled and amused me immensely. 
Painted in brilliant letters, it ran as follows : 
[145] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



EXCEPTIONAL BARGAIN: 

For men having their left foot ampu- 
tated and wearing size No. 9, 
S shoes for the right foot — two 
Hack and one tan; excellent 
quality, almost like new. 
For sale, or exchange for shoes be- 
longing to the left foot. Must he 
of same quality and in like condition, 

"I haven't yet made any special effort to 
ascertain whether there are more amputations 
of the left than of the right foot," continued 
Monsieur Laurent; "I suppose it's about equal. 
Well, my plan is just this. As soon as there's 
peace I'm going to set up shop on the rue St. 
Antoine, or the Place de la Bastille. I'll call 
it *A la botte de I'ampute,' and I sell my shoes 
separately instead of in pairs. There's a 
fortune in it inside of five years." 

"Just hear him raving," sighed his wife. 
"You know well enough, Laurent, that just so 
soon as the war is over we're going to sell out, 
and with the money, your pension, and what 
we've saved up, we'll go out to the Pare St. 
Maur, buy a little cottage and settle down. I'll 
[ 146 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



raise a few chickens and some flowers, and you 
can go fishing in the Seine all day long." 

"But the economical struggle?" 

"You let the economical struggle take care 
of itself. Now, with your mad idea, just sup- 
pose those who had a right foot all wanted tan 
shoes, and those who had a left couldn't stand 
anything but black? I'd like to know where 
you'd be then? Stranger things than that have 
happened." 

Laurent gazed at his wife in admiration. 

"With all your talk about the future, it 
seems to me we've been down here a long time 
since that last explosion." 

One woman looked for her husband but 
could not find him. The Rembrandt Christ- 
head had also disappeared. 

A tall fifteen year old lad who stood near 
the door informed us that they had slipped out 
to see. 

"So has Germain." 

"Then you come here ! Don't you dare leave 
me," scolded the mother. "Can you just see 
something happening to him with his father out 
there in the trenches?" 

[147] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



Monsieur Neu and two other men soon fol- 
lowed suit. 

The big boy who had so recently been ad- 
monished managed to crawl from beneath his 
mother's gaze and make his escape. 

"If ever I catch him, he'll find out what my 
name is," screamed the excited woman, dashing 
after him into the darkness. 

Then, presently, one by one we took our way 
towards the hall, and the cellar seemed empty. 

The tall boy came back to the entrance, all 
excitement. 

"We saw where it fell!" he panted. "There 
are some wounded. The police won't let you 
go near. There's lots and lots of people out 
there. Where's mamma?" 

"She's looking for you!" 

He was off with a bound. 

The instinct to see, to know what is going on 
is infinitely stronger than that of self preserva- 
tion. Many a soldier has told me that, and I 
have often had occasion to prove it personally. 

Some of the women started towards the 
street. 

"We're only going as far as the door," said 
they by way of excuse. "You're really quite 
[U8] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



safe beneath the portico." And they carried 
their babies with them. 

So when the final signal of safety was 
sounded, there remained below but a few old 
women, a couple of very small children, and 
Monsieur Leddin, whom nothing seemed to dis- 
turb. 

The mothers returned to fetch their children. 
The old ladies and Monsieur Leddin were 
aroused. 

'T'estfini! Ahr 

And in the courtyard one could hear them 
calling as they dispersed. 

"Good-night, Madame Cocard." 

"Good-night, Madame Bidon." 

"Don't forget." 

"I won't." 

"Till next time." 

"That's it, till next time." 

A young woman approached me. 

"Madame, you won't mind if I come after 
them to-morrow, would you?" she begged with 
big wistful eyes. "The stairway is so dark and 
so narrow in our house, I'm afraid something 
might happen to them." 

[ 149 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"Mercy me! you're surely not thinking of 
leaving your babies alone in the cellar?" 

"Oh, Madame, it's not my babies. Not yet," 
and she smiled. "It's my bronze chimney orna- 
ments!" 

"Your what?" 

"Yes, Madame, my chimney ornaments. A 
clock and a pair of candlesticks. They're over 
there in that wooden box all done up beauti- 
fully. You see Lucien and I got married af- 
ter the war began. It was all done so quickly 
that I didn't have any trousseau or wedding 
presents. I'm earning quite a good deal now, 
and I don't want him to think ill of me so I'm 
furnishing the house, little by little. It's a 
surprise for when he comes home." 

"He's at the front?" 

"No, Madame, in the hospital. He has a 
bad face wound. My, how it worried him. He 
wanted to die, he used to be so handsome ! See, 
here's his photograph. He isn't too awfully 
ugly, is he? Anyway I don't love him a bit 
less; quite the contrary, and that's one of the 
very reasons why I want to fix things up — so 
as to prove it to him!" 



[150] 



VII 

The Moulin Rouge no longer turns. The 
strains of sounding brass and tinkling cymbal 
which once issued incessantly from every 
open cafe, and together with the street 
cries, the tram bells and the motor horns of 
the Boulevards Exterieurs, formed a gigantic 
characteristic medley, have long since died 
away. The night restaurants are now turned 
into workrooms and popular soup kitchens. 
Montmartre, the heart of Paris, as it used to 
be called, Montmartre the care-free, has be- 
come drawn and wizened as a winter apple, 
and at present strangely resembles a little 
provincial city. 

If it were true that "There is no greater sor- 
row than recalling happy times when in 
misery," doubtless from France would rise but 
one long forlorn wail. The stoic Parisian 
poilu, however, has completely reversed such 
philosophy, and unmindful of the change his 
absence has created, delights in the remem- 
[ 151 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



brance of every instant, dreams but of the mo- 
ment when he shall again be part of the light- 
hearted throngs who composed the society of 
the Butte. Time and again I have seen heavy 
army trucks lumbering down the avenue, bear- 
ing in huge chalk letters on either side of the 
awning-covered sides, such inscriptions as — 
Bon jour, Montmartre. A hientot la Cigale — 
Greetings from the Front — and like non- 
sense, denoting not only a homesick heart, but a 
delicate attention towards a well beloved. 

A few months might have made but little dif- 
ference, but each succeeding year of war has 
brought indelible changes. Gone forever, I 
fear, are the evenings when after dinner at the 
Cuckoo, we would stand on the balcony and 
watch the gradual fairy-like illumination of the 
panorama that stretched out before us. The 
little restaurant has closed its doors, but the 
vision from the terrace is perhaps more majes- 
tic, for as the last golden rays of twilight dis- 
appear, a deep purple vapour rising from the 
unknown, rolls forward and mysteriously en- 
velops the Ville Lumiere in its sumptuous 
protecting folds. Alone, overhead the star 
lamp of a scout plane is the only visible light. 
[152] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



The old Moulin de la Galette has cast 
aside its city airs and taken on a most rural 
aspect, while the maquis, or jungle on whose 
site a whole new white stone quarter had been 
projected, is now but a mass of half finished, 
abandoned foundations, wherein the children 
of the entire neighbourhood gather to play at 
the only game which now has a vogue, i.e., 
"War." 

La petite guerre they caU it. 

We came upon them quite by accident one 
afternoon, and discovered two hostile bands oc- 
cupying first line trenches. 

Of course, as no one wished to be the Boche, 
it looked for a time as though the campaign 
would have to be deferred, but so violent was 
the love of fray that it was soon decided that 
the opposite side in both cases would be con- 
sidered Hun, and thus the difficulty was solved. 

It goes without saying that the school which 
is first dismissed occupies the better positions. 
The others must rely upon their strength and 
valour to win out. 

The first attack was with hand grenades in 
the form of pebbles. Patrols advanced into 
No Man's Land, crawling and crouching until 
[153] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



with a yell the belligerents met. Prisoners 
were taken on both sides. 

"What forces have we in front of us?" de- 
manded an important looking twelve year old 
General of an enemy soldier who was brought 
before him. 

Dead silence ensued. 

"If he refuses to answer, turn him upside 
down until he does." 

The order was executed. 

From the opposite trench came shrieks of 
"Boche! Boche! — it's only the Boche who mal- 
treat prisoners." 

The aforementioned who was rapidly de- 
veloping cerebral congestion, made sign that 
he would speak. 

"Turn him right side up !" 

The young executioner obeyed, but still held 
a firm grip on the unfortunate lad's collar. 

"Now, then, how many of you are there in 
your trenches?" 

"Enough to make jelly out of your men if 
there are many like you!" shrieked the captive, 
struggling to escape. 

"Take him behind the lines, don't be rough 
with him. Respect is due all prisoners," or- 
[ 154 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



dered the General, whose eye had caught a 
glimpse of his army being menaced by the 
blond headed enemy. 

"Look out, boys! Down with your heads! 
They're sending over some 'coal scuttles.' Dig 
in I say and keep a sharp look out! What's 
the matter back there?" 

"It's little Michaud. He's wounded!" 

"Don't cry, Michaud, go out by the connect- 
ing trench to the dressing station. It's not 
far." 

The hail of "coal scuttles" having subsided, 
the General mounted to his observation post. 

"Hey! Michel! Gaston! hey there, the ar- 
tillery !" he yelled. "Get in at them quick. Go 
to it, I say. Don't you see they're going to at- 
tack! What's artillery for, anyway?" 

"We can't fire a shot. They're pounding 
on our munitions dump." 

"What difference does that make?" 

Under heavy fire the artillery achieved the 
impossible, which actually resulted in blood- 
shed. But their determination was soon re- 
warded, for the patent "Seventy Fives," rep- 
resented by huge slabs of sod, soon rained into 
the enemy trenches, sowing panic and disorder. 
[155] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



Profiting by the confusion, our General 
grabbed up a basket and began distributing 
munitions. 

"Attention! Listen to me! Don't any one 
fire until I give the word. Let them approach 
quite close and then each one of you choose 
your man. Dentu, if you're too short, stand 
on a stone or something!" 

The artillery wreaking havoc in his midst, 
the enemy decided to brusque matters and at- 
tack. He left his trenches shouting, ''Vive la 
France! En avant! Aux armes^ mes citoyens! 
A has le BocheT 

"Attention! Are you ready? Fire!" com- 
manded our General. 

Bing! bang! a veritable tornado of over-ripe 
tomatoes deluged the astonished oncomers, who 
hesitated an instant and then fell back. The 
standard bearer having received one juicy mis- 
sile full in the face, dropped his emblem and 
stared wild-eyed about him. From the head 
and hair of the enemy General, whose card- 
board helmet had been crushed to a pulp, 
streamed a disgusting reddish mess. The other 
unfortunate wounded were weeping. 

''En avant a la hayonette! Vive la France! 
[156] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



We've got them, they're ours," shrieked the de- 
lighted commander, who owed his rank to the 
fact that his parents kept a fruit stand. 

It was victory for certain, and a proudly won 
triumph. The melee was hot and ferocious, 
many a patch or darn being put in store for 
certain patient, all-enduring mothers. 

The dressing station was full to overflowing. 
Here the feminine element reigned supreme, 
their heads eclipsed beneath a stolen dish cloth, 
a borrowed towel, or a grimy handkerchief. 
And here too, little Michaud, his pate en- 
veloped in so many yards of bandage that he 
seemed to be all turban, sat on an impromptu 
cot, smiling benignly while devouring a three 
sou apple tart, due to the generosity of the 
Ladies' Red Cross Emergency Committee, 
which had taken up a collection in order to al- 
leviate the sufferings of their dear hero. 

To be perfectly frank, almost all the sup- 
ply of dressings had been employed on Mich- 
aud's person at the very outbreak of hostilities, 
so, therefore, when the stock ran short and 
more were needed, they were merely unrolled 
from about his head. 

Leaving him to his fate, we advanced a bit 
[157] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



in order to communicate with one of the glori- 
ous vanquished. 

"They think they've got us," he explained, 
*'but just you wait and see! I know a shop 
on the Avenue de Clichy where you can get 
rotten eggs for nothing! They don't know 
what's coming to them — they don't!" 

Thus for these little folks the very state of 
their existence is the war. They do not talk 
about it because they are living it. Even those 
who are so fortunate as to recall the happy 
times when there was no conflict, scarcely as- 
sume a superiority over their comrades who 
cannot remember that far distant epoch. 

"My papa'll be home next week on furlough 
if there isn't an attack," or "Gee, how we 
laughed down cellar the night of the bombard- 
ment," are common phrases, just as the words, 
"guns, shells, aeroplanes and gas," form the 
very elements of their education. The better 
informed instruct the others, and it is no un- 
common occurrence to see a group of five or 
six little fellows hanging around a doorway, 
listening to a gratuitous lecture on the 75, 
given by an elder. 

"That's not true," cuts in one. "It's not that 
[ 158 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



at all, the correcteur and the debouchoir are 
not the same thing. Not by a long sight! I 
ought to know, hadn't I, my father's chief gun- 
ner in his battery." 

"Ah, go on! Didn't Mr. Dumont who used 
to teach the third grade, draw it all out for us 
on the blackboard the last time he was home 
on leave? What do you take us for? Why 
he's even got the Croix de Guerre and the 
"Bananna." * 

Nor is the communique ignored by these 
budding heroes. On the contrary, it is read 
and commented upon with fervour. 

In a little side street leading to the Seine, I 
encountered a ten year old lad, dashing for- 
ward, brandishing the evening paper in his 
hand. 

"Come on, kids, it's time for the communis 
que/' he called to a couple of smaller boys who 
were playing on the opposite curb. The chil- 
dren addressed (one may have been five, the 
other seven, or thereabouts) immediately aban- 
doned their marbles, and hastened to join their 

* The "Bananna'* — slang for the Medaille Militaire 
— probably on account of the green and yellow ribbon 
on which it hangs. 

[ 159 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



companion, who breathlessly unfolded the 
sheet. 

"Artillery combats in Flanders " he 

commenced. 

The little fellows opened their big candid 
eyes, their faces were drawn and grave, in an 
intense effort of attention. Their mouths 
gaped unconsciously. One felt their desire to 
understand, to grasp things that were com- 
pletely out of reach. 

"During the night a spirited attack with 
hand grenades in the region of the Four de 
Paris," continued the reader. "We progressed 
slightly to the East of Mort Homme, and took 
an element of trenches. We captured two 
machine guns, and made several prisoners." 

"My papa's in Alsace," piped one listener. 

"And mine's in the Somme." 

"That's all right," inferred the elder. "Isn't 
mine at Verdun?" and then proudly, "And 
machine gunner at that!" 

Then folding his paper and preparing to 
move on : 

"The news is good — we should worry." 

Yes, that's what the little ones understood 
best of all, "the news is good," and a wonder- 
[160] 




A COURTYARD IN MONTMARTRE 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



ful, broad, angelic smile spread out over their 
fresh baby faces; a smile so bewitching that I 
couldn't resist embracing them — much to their 
surprise. 

"I just must kiss you," I explained, "be- 
cause the news is good!" 

From one end to the other of the entire 
social scale the children have this self same 
spirit. 

Seated at the dining-room table, a big spot 
of violet ink on one cheek, I found little Jules 
Gauthier carefully copying something in a note 
book. 

"What are you doing there, Jules?" 

"Writing in my book, Madame." 

"What are you writing?" 

"About the war, everything I can remem- 
ber." 

At that particular moment he was inscribing 
an anecdote which he had just heard some one 
telling in his mother's drawing room. 

"The President of the Republic once asked 
General de Castelnau, 'Well, General, what 
shall you do after the war is over?' 

" 'Weep for my sons, Mr. President.' " 
[161] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"But, Jules, why do you write such things?" 
I queried. 

"Because it's splendid, and I put down 
everything I know or hear that's beautiful or 
splendid." 

And true enough, pele mele with portrait* 
he had cut out and pasted, plans for aeroplanes 
that he had drawn, were copies of extraordi- 
nary citations for bravery, memorable . dates 
and descriptions of battles. 

In the Summer of 1915, my friend Jeanne 
took her small baby and her daughter Annette, 
aged five, to their little country home on the 
seashore in Brittany. The father, over military 
age, remained in town to look after some pa- 
triotic work. 

Help was hard to get, and Jeanne not over 
strong was torn between household duties and 
her infant son, so that Annette, clad in a bath- 
ing suit and sweater, spent most of her time 
on the beach in company with other small 
people of her own years. 

Astonished at seeing the little one so much 
alone, certain kind-hearted mothers invited 
her to partake of their bread, chocolate and 
[162] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



other dainties provided for the gouter of 
their own offspring, and as the child gladly 
and continually accepted, her apparent aban- 
don became a subject of conversation, and 
they decided to question Annette. 

"Where is your mother, dear?" 

"She's home, very ill." 

"Oh, really. I'm so sorry, what's the 
trouble — nothing serious, I hope?" 

"I think it must be— you see she has had her 
three brothers killed and now grandpa has 
enlisted." 

"Dear me, how terrible! And your papa?" 

"Oh, he's in town working for the govern- 
ment. One of his brothers was killed and the 
other is blind. Poor old grandma died of the 
shock." 

Moved by the lamentable plight of so young 
a mother, the good ladies sought to penetrate 
her seclusion, offer their condolences, and help 
lift the cloud of gloom. 

Imagine then their surprise at being re- 
ceived by my smiling, blond-haired friend, who 
failed to comprehend their mournful but as- 
tonished looks. 

At length Annette's story was brought to 
[163] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



light, and Jeanne could but thank them for 
their trouble, at the same time explaining that 
neither she nor her husband had ever had 
brothers, and that their parents had been dead 
these many years. 

"You naughty, wicked girl!" scolded 
Jeanne, as her tearful progeny was led for- 
ward. "You wicked, wicked girl — ^what made 
you tell such lies?" 

The culprit twisted her hands; her whole 
body fairly convulsed with restrained sobs. 

"Answer me at once! Do you hear me?" 

Annette hesitated, and then throwing her- 
self in her mother's arms, blurted out, "Oh, 
mamma, I just couldn't help it! All the 
others were so proud of their poilus, and I 
haven't any one at the front; not even a god- 
son!" 

It seems highly probable that children who 
have received such an education will ulti- 
mately form a special generation. Poor little 
things who never knew what "play" meant, 
at a time when life should have been all sun- 
shine and smiles; tender, sensitive creatures 
brought up in an atmosphere of privation and 
tears. 

[164] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



Those who were between ten and fifteen 
years of age at the outbreak of the war have 
had a particularly hard time. 

In the smaller trades and industries, as well 
as on the farms, with a father or an elder 
brother absent, these youngsters have been 
obliged to leave school or college, and hasten 
to the counter or the plough. And not only 
have they been called upon to furnish the help- 
ing hand, but in times of moral stress they 
have often had to give proof of a mature judg- 
ment, a courage, a will power, and a fore- 
bearance far beyond their years. 

After a ten months' absence, when I opened 
up my Parisian home, I found it necessary to 
change or replace certain electric lighting ar- 
rangements. As usual I called up the Maison 
Bincteux. 

"Bien, Madame, I shall send some one to 
look after it." 

The next morning my maid announced La 
Maison Bincteux, 

When I reached the hallway, I found the 

aforesaid Maison to be a lad some fifteen years 

old, who might easily have passed for twelve, 

so slight was his build. His long, pale, oval 

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face, which seemed almost unhealthy, was re- 
lieved by a pair of snapping blue eyes. 

"Did you bring a letter?" 

"Oh, no, Madame, I am Monsieur Binc- 
teux's son." 

"Then your father is coming later?" 

"Oh, no, Madame, he can't, he is mechani- 
cian in the aviation corps at Verdun. My 
oldest brother is in the artillery, and the second 
one has just left for the front — so I quit school 
and am trying to help mother continue the 
husiness." 

"How old are you?" 

"I belong to the Class of 1923," came the 
proud reply. 

"Oh, I see. Come right in then, I'll show 
you what I need." 

With a most serious and important air he 
produced a note book, tapped on the parti- 
tions, sounded the walls, took measures and 
jotted down a few lines. 

"Very well, Madame, I've seen all that's 
necessary. I'll be back to-morrow morning 
with a workman." 

True to his word he appeared the next day, 
accompanied by a decrepit, coughing, asth- 
[166] 



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matic specimen of humanity, who was hardly 
worthy of the honorable title his employer had 
seen fit to confer. 

Our studio is extremely high, and when it 
was necessary to stretch out and raise our 
double extension ladder, it seemed as though 
disaster were imminent. 

We offered our assistance, but from the 
glance he launched us, I felt quite certain 
that we had mortally offended the manager 
of the 3Iaison Bincteu^, He stiffened every 
muscle, gave a supreme effort, and up went 
the ladder. Truly his will power, his intelli- 
gence and his activity were remarkable. 

After surveying the undertaking, he made 
his calculations, and then addressing his aid: 

"We'll have to bore here," he said. "The 
wires will go through there, to the left and 
we'll put the switches to the right, just above; 
go ahead with the work and I'll be back in a 
couple of hours." 

The old man mumbled something disoblig- 
ing. 

"Do what I tell you and don't make any 
fuss about it. You're better off here than in 
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the trenches, aren't you? We've heard enough 
from you, old slacker." 

The idea that any one dare insinuate that 
he ought to be at the front at his age, fairly 
suifocated the aid electrician, who broke into 
a fit of coughing. 

"Madame, Madame," he gasped. "In the 
trenches? Why I'm seventy- three. I've 
worked for his father and grandfather before 
him — but I've never seen his like! Why only 
this very morning he was grumbling because 
I didn't ride a bicycle so we could get to places 
faster!" 

At noon the Maison Bincteuoo reappeared, 
accompanied by the General Agent of the 
Electric Company. He discussed matters in 
detail with this awe inspiring person — ob- 
jected, retaliated, and finally terminated his 
affairs, leaving us a few moments later, hav- 
ing accomplished the best and most rapid job 
of its kind I have ever seen. 

With the Class of 1919 now behind the lines, 
by the time this volume goes to press, there is 
little doubt but that the class of 1920 shall 
have been called to the colours. All these lads 
are the little fellows we used to know in short 
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trousers; the rascals who not so many sum- 
mers since climbed to the house-tops, swung 
from trees, fell into the river, dropped tor- 
pedoes to frighten the horses or who when 
punished and locked in their rooms, would 
jump out the window and escape. 

Then, there were those others, "the good 
boys," whose collars and socks were always 
immaculate, romantic little natures that would 
kiss your hand with so much ceremony and 
politeness, blushing if one addressed them af- 
fectionately, spending whole days at a time 
lost in fantastic reveries. 

To us they hardly seem men. And yet they 
are already soldiers, prepared to make the 
supreme sacrifice, well knowing from father, 
brothers or friends who have gone before, all 
the grandeur and abnegation through which 
their souls must pass to attain but an uncertain 
end. 

Any number of what we would call mere 
children have been so imbued with the spirit 
of sacrifice, that they have joined the army 
long before their Class was called. Madame 
de Martel's grandson, the sons of Monsieur 
Barthou, Louis Morin, Pierre Mille, to men- 
[169] 



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tion but a few in thousands, all fell on the 
Field of Honour before attaining their eigh- 
teenth year. 

And each family will tell you the same 
pathetic tale: 

"We tried to interest him in his work — ^we 
provided all kinds of amusements; did every- 
thing to keep him here ; all to no avail. There 
was just one thought uppermost in his mind — 
Enlist — Serve. He was all we had!" 

Little Jacques Krauss promised his mother 
he would not go until he had won his bac- 
calaureate, and my friend lived in the hope 
that all would be over by the time the "baby" 
had succeeded. But, lo! the baby, unknown 
to his parents, worked nights, skipped a 
year, passed his examination, and left for the 
front, aged seventeen years and three months ! 
He had kept his word. What could they do? 

In another household — ^my friends the G's., 
where two elder sons have already been killed, 
there remained as sole heir, a pale, lanky youth 
of sixteen. 

With the news of his brothers' death the 
flame of vengeance kindled, and then began 
a regime of overfeeding, physical exercises, 
[170] 



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and medical supervision, that would have 
made many a stouter heart quail. 

Every week the family is present when the 
chest measure is taken. 

"Just one more centimetre, and you'll be 
fit!" exclaims the enthusiastic father, while 
on the lashes of the smiling mother form two 
bright tears which trickle unheeded down her 
cheeks. 

There reigns a supernatural enthusiasm 
among all these youths; an almost sacred fire 
burns in their eyes, their speech is pondered 
but passionate. They are so glad, so proud 
to go. They know but one fear — that of ar- 
riving too late. 

"We don't want to belong to the Class that 
didn't fight." 

And with it all they are so childlike and so 
simple — these heroes. 

One afternoon, in a tea room near the Bon 
Marche, I noticed a soldier in an obscure 
comer, who, his back turned to us, was finish- 
ing with vigorous appetite, a plate of fancy 
cakes and pastry. (There was still pastry in 
those days — 1917.) 

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"Good!" thought I. "I'm glad to see some 
one who loves cakes enjoying himself!" 

The plate emptied, he waited a few minutes. 
Then presently he called the attendant. 

She leaned over, listened to his whispered 
order, smiled and disappeared. A moment 
later she returned bearing a second well laden 
dish. 

It was not long before these cakes too had 
gone the way of their predecessors. 

I lingered a while anxious to see the face 
of this robust sweet tooth, whose appetite had 
so delighted me. 

He poured out and swallowed a last cup of 
tea, paid his bill and rose, displaying as he 
turned about a pink and white beardless coun- 
tenance, that might have belonged to a boy of 
fifteen — suddenly grown to a man during an 
attack of measles. On his breast was the 3Ie- 
daille 31 Hit air e^ and the C voice de Querrey^ with 
three palms. 

This mere infant must have jumped from 

his school to an aeroplane. At any rate, I feel 

quite certain that he never before had been 

allowed out alone with sufficient funds to 

[172] 



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gratify his youthful passion for sweetmeats 
and, therefore, profiting by this first occasion, 
had indulged himself to the limit. Can you 
blame him? 



[ 173 J 



VIII 

To go from Le Mans to Falaise, from 
Falaise to St. Lo; from St. Lo to Morlaix, 
and thence to Poitiers would seem very easy 
on the map, and with a motor, in times gone 
by it was a really royal itinerary, so vastly 
different and picturesque are the various 
regions crossed. But now that gasolene is 
handed out by the spoonful even to sanitary 
formations, it would be just as easy f^r the 
civilian to procure a white elephant as to 
dream of purchasing sufficient "gas" to make 
such a trip. 

There is nothing to do but take the train, 
and that means of locomotion not only re- 
quires time, but patience and considerable 
good humour. Railway service in France has 
been decidedly reduced, and while travelling 
is permitted only to those persons who must 
needs do so, the number of plausible motives 
alleged has greatly augmented, with the result 
that trains are crowded to the extreme limit. 
[174] 



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To tell the truth, a good third of the popula- 
tion is always moving. For how on earth is 
one to prevent the parents of a wounded hero 
from crossing the entire country to see him, or 
deny them the right to visit a lad at his train- 
ing camp? 

This then accounts for the appearance of 
the Breton peasant's beribboned hat and em- 
broidered waistcoat on the promenades of the 
Riviera, the Arlesian bonnet in the depths of 
Normandy, the Pyrenese cap in Lorraine. 

All this heterogeneous crowd forms a long 
line in front of the ticket oiiice, each one en- 
cumbered with a basket or a bag, a carpetsack 
or a bundle containing pates and sausages, 
pastry and pickles, every known local dainty 
which will recall the native village to the dear 
one so far away. 

It is thus that from Argentan to Caen I 
found myself seated between a stout motherly 
person from Auvergne, and a little dark man 
from whose direction was wafted so strong an 
odour of garlic that I had no difficulty discern- 
ing from what region he hailed. Next to him 
were a bourgeois couple whose mourning at- 
tire, red eyes and swollen faces bespoke 
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plainly enough the bereavement they had just 
suffered. Silent, indifferent to everything 
and everybody, their hands spread out on their 
knees, they stared into the ghastly emptiness, 
vainly seeking consolation for their shattered 
dream, their grief -trammelled souls. 

A heavily built couple of Norman farmers 
occupied the seats on either side of the door, 
and then came a tall young girl and her 
mother, a Belgian soldier, and finally a 
strange old creature wearing an antiquated 
starched bonnet, a flowered shawl, and carry- 
ing an umbrella such as one sees but in en- 
gravings illustrating the modes and customs 
of the eighteenth century. She was literally 
buried beneath a monumental basket which she 
insisted upon holding on her knees. 

Every available inch of floor space was cov- 
ered with crocks and kits full of provisions, 
and in the rack above our heads were so many 
boxes and bundles, bags and bales, remaining 
aloft by such remarkable laws of equilibrium 
that I feared lest any moment they fall upon 
our heads, and once this catastrophe occurred 
there seemed to be little hope of extricating 
oneself from beneath the ruins. 
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The conversation was opened by the Nor- 
man farmer who offered to relieve the Httle 
old woman of her basket and set it safely be- 
tween his feet. 

''^Oh, non merdj'^ she piped in a thin little 
wavering treble, and an inimitable accent 
which made it impossible to guess her' origin. 

"Oh, no. Monsieur, thank you," she con- 
tinued. "It's full of cream tarts and cherry; 
tarts, and custard pies made right in our own 
home. I'm taking them to my boy, and as we 
stayed up very late to make them so that they 
would be quite fresh, I should hate to have 
any of them crushed or broken. He did love 
them so when he was little!" 

"Our son was just the same. As soon as 
he was able to eat he begged them to let him 
have some brioche. But his fever was too 
high when we got there, and he couldn't take 
a thing. 'That doesn't matter,' he said to his 
mother. 'Just the sight of them makes my 
mouth water, and I feel better already.' " 

My Proven9al neighbour could no longer re- 
sist. His natural loquaciousness got the better 
of his reserve. 

"Well, the first thing my son asked for was 
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olives, SO I brought him enough to last, as well 
as some sausage which he used to relish. Oh, 
if only I could bring him a little bit of our 
blue sky, I'm sure he would recover twice as 
quickly." 

The mother of the young girl now sat for- 
ward and asked the Norman farmer's wife 
where and how her son had been wounded. 

"He had a splinter of shell in his left thigh. 
He'd been through the whole campaign with- 
out a scratch or a day of illness." 

The woman's eyes sparkled with pride and 
tenderness. 

The short man beside me, who informed me 
he was a native of Beaucaire on the Rhone, 
had one son wounded and being cared for in 
a hospital at Caen, a second prisoner in Ger- 
many, and two sons-in-law already killed. 

According to a letter which the dear old 
flowered shawl spelled out to us word by 
word, her grandson had been wounded in 
seven different places, and had had one hand 
and one leg amputated. But he hastened to 
add that he was not worrying a bit about it. 

The young girl's mother had one son in the 
ranks, and a second, aged seventeen, had en- 
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listed and was about to leave for the front. 
She and her daughter were on their Xvay to 
embrace him for the last time. 

The Belgian soldier was just getting about 
after an attack of typhoid fever, and the 
motherly person on my left was travelling 
towards her husband, a territorial of ripe years 
whose long nights of vigil beneath bridges and 
in the mud of the Somme had brought him 
down vrith inflammatory rheumatism. Their 
son, they prayed, was prisoner — having 
been reported missing since the 30th of 
August, 1914. This coarse, heavy featured 
woman of the working classes, cherished her 
offspring much as a lioness does her young. 
She told us she had written to the President 
of the Republic, to her Congressman, her 
Senator, to the King of Spain, the Norwegian 
Ambassador, to the Colonel of the Regiment, 
as well as to all the friends of her son on whose 
address she had been able to lay hand; and 
she would keep right on writing until she ob- 
tained some result, some information. She 
could not, would not, admit that her boy was 
lost; and scarcely stopping to take breath she 
would ramble on at length, telling of her hopes 
[ 179 ] 



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and her disappointments to which all the com- 
partment listened religiously while slowly the 
train rolled along through the smiling, undu- 
lating Norman country. 

Each one did what he could to buoy up the 
mother's hopes. 

The little Southerner seemed to possess a 
countless number of stories about prisoners, 
and he presently proceeded to go into minute 
detail about the parcels he sent to his own son, 
explaining the regulation as to contents, meas- 
ures and weights, with so much volubility that 
the good soul already saw herself preparing a 
package to be forwarded to her long lost dar- 
ling. 

"You can just believe that he'll never want 
for anything — if clothes and food will do him 
any good. There's nothing on earth he can't 
have if only we can find him, if only he comes 
back to us." 

And growing bolder as she felt the wealth 
of sympathy surrounding her, she looked over 
and addressed the woman in mourning, who at 
that moment smiled gently at her. 

"We thought we knew how much we loved 
them, didn't we, Madame? But we'd never 
[180] 



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have realised how really deep it was if it hadn't 
been for this war, would we?" 

The woman continued to smile sadly. 

"More than likely you've gcrt somebody in 
it too," persisted the stout Auvergnate, whose 
voice suddenly became very gentle and trem- 
bled a trifle. 

*'I had three sons. We have just buried the 
last one this morning." 

All the faces dropped and a ghastly silence 
fell upon the group. Each one looked straight 
into the distance ahead of him, but the bond 
of sympathy was drawn still tighter, and in 
the moment of stillness that ensued I felt that 
all of us were communing with Sorrow. 

Between FoUigny and Lamballe, we were 
quite as closely huddled between three soldiers 
on furlough, a stout old priest, a travelling 
salesman, and a short gentleman with a 
pointed beard, a pair of eyeglasses and an up- 
turned nose. 

At one moment our train halted and waited 
an incredible length of time vainly whistHng 
for the tower-man to lift the signal which im- 
peded our progress. 

[181] 



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The travelling salesman who was cross and 
weary finally left his seat, grumbling audibly. 

"We'll never in the world get there on time. 
It's certain I shall miss my connection! What 
a rotten road! What management!" 

"It^s the war," murmered the priest pulling 
out a red checked handkerchief in which he 
buried his nose. 

"You don't have to look far to see that/' 
responded the other, still grumbling. 

"Oh, it's plain enough for us all right. 
Those who are handling government jobs are 
the only fellows who don't know it, I should 
say." 

"Bah! each of us has his troubles — each of 
us has his Cross to bear," murmured the Father 
by way of conciliation, casting his eyes around 
the compartment, much as he would have done 
upon the faithful assembled to hear him hold 
forth. 

"Pooh! it's you priests who are the cause of 
all the trouble. It was you who preached and 
got the three year service law voted." 

The poor Curate was fairly suffocated with 
surprise and indignation. He was so ruffled 
he could hardly find a word. In the mean- 
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



time the travelling salesman taking advantage 
of his silence, continued : 

"Yes, it was you and the financiers, and it's 
nothing to brag about either 1" 

The man with the upturned nose now 
wheeled about sharply. His blood was up and 
he strangely resembled a little bantam cock- 
erel. 

"Monsieur," he snapped, and his voice was 
clear and cutting, "if any one had a right to 
express a complaint on any subject whatso- 
ever, it would certainly be the soldiers who are 
seated in this compartment. Now as they 
have said nothing, I cannot admit that you, 
a civilian, should take such liberties." 

"But, Monsieur " 

"Yes, Monsieur, that's exactly what I mean, 
and as to the sentiments to which you have 
given voice they are as stupid as they are 
odious. We all know now that war was in- 
evitable. The Germans have been preparing 
it for forty years." 

"Monsieur!" 

"Monsieur!" 

The two glared fixedly at each other for an 
instant; the one was very red, the other ex- 
[183] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



tremely pale. Then they turned about and re- 
sumed their places in each corner. The priest 
produced his breviary, the soldiers finished 
a light repast composed of bread and cheese. 

They were all three peasants, easily dis- 
cernible from the way they slowly chewed and 
swallowed, or caught up a crumb of cheese on 
the point of their knives. They had sat silent 
and listened to the outbursts without turning 
an eyelash. Then presently one of them lifted 
his head and addressing his companions in a 
deep bass voice: 

"Well," said he, "this makes almost two 
days now that we've been on the way!" 

"What have you got to kick about?" re- 
taliated the other, shutting his knife and wiping 
his mouth v/ith the back of his hand. "You're 
as well off here as you were in the trenches of 
Bois Le Pretre, aren't you?" 

The third one said nothing, but recom- 
menced carving a cane which he had aban- 
doned for an instant, and which he was ter- 
minating with more patience than art, though 
the accomplishment of his task seemed to give 
him infinite pleasure. 

As the commercial traveller had predicted, 
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we were hours late and in consequence missed 
our connection, but the platform of a station 
where two lines meet, offers, under such cir- 
cumstances, so diverse and diverting a spec- 
tacle that we hardly regretted the delay. It 
is here that any one interested in physiognomy 
can best study and judge the masses, for it 
is as though the very texture from which 
France is woven were laid bare before him. 
This spectacle is constantly changing, con- 
stantly renewed, at times deeply moving. No 
face can be, or is, indifferent, in these days 
and one no longer feels himself a detached 
individual observer; one becomes an atom of 
the crowd, sharing the anxiety of certain 
women that one knows are on their way to a 
hospital and who half mad with impatience 
are clutching the fatal telegram in one hand, 
while with the fingers of the other they thrum 
on one cheek or nervously catch at a button or 
ornament of their clothing. 

Or again one may participate in the hilari- 
ous joy of the men on furlough, who having 
discovered the pump, stand stripped to the 
waist, making a most meticulous toilet, all the 
while teasing a fat, bald-headed chap to whom 
[ 185 ] 



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they continuously pass their pocket combs 
with audible instructions to be sure to put his 
part on the left side. 

The waiting-rooms literally overflow with 
soldiers — some stretched out on the benches, 
some on the floor ; certain lying on their faces, 
others on their backs, and still others pillowing 
their heads on their knapsacks. 

One feels their overpowering weariness, 
their leaden sleep after so many nights of 
vigil; their absolute relaxation after so many 
consecutive days in which all the vital forces 
have been stretched to the breaking point. 

From time to time an employe opens the 
door and shouts the departure of a train. The 
soldiers rouse themselves, accustomed to being 
thus disturbed in the midst of their slumber. 
One or two get up, stare about them, collect 
their belongings and start for the platform, 
noiselessly stepping over their sleeping com- 
panions. At the same time newcomers, creep- 
ing in behind them, sink down into the places 
which they have just forsaken, while they are 
still warm. 

On a number of baggage trucks ten or a 
dozen Moroccan soldiers have seated them- 
[186] 



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selves, crosslegged, and draped in their noble 
burnous, they gently pufF smoke into the air, 
without a movement, without a gesture, with- 
out a sound, apparently utterly oblivious to 
the noisy employes, or the thundering of the 
passing trains. 

On the platform people walk up and down, 
up and down; certain among them taking a 
marked interest in the old-fashioned, wheez- 
ing locomotives which seem fairly to stagger 
beneath the long train of antiquated coaches 
hitched behind them. 

Here, of course, are to be found the tradi- 
tional groups in evidence at every station; a 
handful of people in deep mourning on their 
way to a funeral; a little knot of Sisters of 
Charity, huddled together in an obscure cor- 
ner reciting their rosary; families of refugees 
whom the tempest has driven from their homes 
— whole tribes dragging with them their old 
people and their children who moan and weep 
incessantly. Their servants loaded down with 
relics saved from the disaster in heavy, clumsy, 
ill-tied bundles, are infinitely pitiable to be- 
hold. They are all travelling straight ahead of 
them with no determined end in view. They 
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seem to have been on the way so long, and yet 
they are in no haste to arrive. Hunger gnaw- 
ing them, they produce their provisions, and 
having seated themselves on their luggage, 
commence a repast, eating most slowly, the 
better to kill time while waiting for a train 
that refuses to put in an appearance. 

The buffet is so full of noise, smoke and 
various other odours, that having opened the 
door one hesitates before entering. There is 
a long counter where everything is sold ; bread, 
wine, cider, beer and lemonade; sandwiches, 
pates, fruit and sweetmeats. One makes his 
choice and pays in consequence. At the side 
tables the civilians are lost mid the mass of blue 
uniforms. 

This is a station in Normandy, and for the 
boys of this region nothing can substitute a 
good big bowl of hot vegetable soup, seasoned 
with the famous graisse normande and 
poured over thin slices of bread, the whole 
topped off with a glass of cider or "pure 
juice" as they call it. It is a joy to see them 
seated about the board, their elbows on the 
table, their heads bent forward over the steam- 
ing bowl, whose savoury perfume as it rises to 
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MONSIEUR AMEDE 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



their nostrils seems to carry with it a veritable 
ecstasy, if one were to judge by the beatijfic 
expression on every countenance. 

"That goes right to the spot, doesn't it?" 

From another table a voice responds: 

"Yes, fellows, it's better than a kick in the 
shins, every time !" 

The last mouthful gone, the cider bottles 
empty, they tighten the straps of their kit bags 
and rise regretfully from their seats. 

''Allez, Off again, boys! C'est la guerrer 
and they shuj9Be away humming and filling 
their pipes. 

From the direction of the huvette, or 
har comes noisy laughter followed by ouths. 
The uncertain voice of a seemingly intoxicated 
individual dominates all others. Yet notiiing 
but soft drinks are sold. 

"As the Colonel of the 243rd used to ' ay," 
it continues, ^Soldiers of my regiment, repose 
upon your arms !' My arms are the bottle 1 My 
bottle and my wife are the only things ^rarth 
while when I'm on furlough. I " 

His voice disappeared an instant, dimmed 
by the rising tumult. Then suddenly it broke 
forth anew — 

[ 189 ] 



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"Attention! Present arms, here comes a 
coal scuttle. Now then, — ^flatten out on the 
back of your stomach!" 

An instant later the man appeared at the 
threshold of the dining room. 

He was a heavily built, big jointed, husky 
Norman farmer-soldier, with his helmet 
pulled down low over his eyes, so that the 
upper part of his face was completely hidden 
from view. 

Suddenly he pushed it far back on his head, 
and casting a sweeping glance over the as- 
sembled diners, he called forth in stentorian 
tones that made every one turn around : 

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" 

The cashier behind the counter, who evi- 
dently foresaw trouble, called out to him in 
shriL tones: 

"You've made a mistake, go back to the 
huvette. You've nothing to do out here!" 

Removing his helmet, the gallant knight 
made the lady a sweeping bow. 

"Your servant, Madame. Your humble 
servant," he continued. "Cyprien Fremont, 
called Cyp for short." 

"Did you hear what I said? Now then, 
[ 190 ] 



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take yourself off," cried the ungracious adored 
one. 

But the poilu was not to be so silenced. 

Putting his hand to his heart and addressing 
the assembly: 

"Ungrateful country!" he cried, "is it thus 
that you receive your sons who shed their blood 
for you?" 

"That's all right, but go and tell it else- 
where. Go on, I say!" 

"I've only got one more word to say and 
then it will be over." 

But before he could utter that word his 
companions seized him and dragged him back 
from whence he came. As he disappeared 
from view, we heard him announce his inten- 
tion of "doing some stunts" — which offer was 
apparently joyously accepted, followed by 
more laughter and several "dares." 

Suddenly the most terrific noise of falling 
and breaking glass and china brought every 
one to his feet. Excited voices could be heard 
from the direction in which Cyprien had van- 
ished. The army police dashed in, followed 
by the station master and all the employes. 
A lengthy discussion was begun, and having 
[191] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



finished our dinner we left matters to adjust 
themselves and sauntered forth onto the plat- 
form. 

Here we found our Cyprien surrounded by 
his companions, who were busy disinfecting 
and binding up the wounds that he had re- 
ceived when the china cabinet had collapsed 
upon him. One of the men poured the tincture 
of iodine onto a hand held fast by a friend. 
Two others were rolling a bandage about his 
head, while the patient, far from subdued, 
waved the only free but much enveloped hand 
that he possessed, beating time to the air that 
he was literally shouting and in whose rather 
bald verse the station master's wife was ac- 
cused of the grossest infidelity. 

"Shh! Cyprien," his friends enjoined; "shut 
up a bit, can't you?" 

But it was no easy thing to impose silence 
upon Cyprien when he had made up his mind 
to manifest a thought or an opinion. 

"You'll get us all into trouble, old man, 
see if you don't. Cut it out, won't you ? See, 
here comes an officer." 

The officer approached them. 

"It's not his fault, sir," began one of the 
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fellows, before his superior had time to ask a 
question. "I assure you, it's not his fault. 
He's just back from Saloniki — his first fur- 
lough in a year, sir. It must have gone to his 
head. I swear he hasn't had anything but 
cider to drink, sir." 

"But that's no excuse for making all this 
noise. Show me his military book!" 

The officer took it, ran through the pages, 
and then approached Cyprien. 

At the sight of the gold braid Cyprien stood 
up and saluted. 

"Before you went to Saloniki, I see you 
fought at Verdun." 

"Yes, sir." 

"And at Beausejour?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"And Vauquois?" 

"Yes, sir." 

The eyes of the two veterans met; the offi- 
cer's glance seeking to pierce that of the sol- 
dier in front of him. Then suddenly, in an 
irresistible burst of sympathy and respect, he 
thrust out his hand and caught up one of 
Cyprien's bandaged pair. 

*'I was there, too," was all he said. 
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Instantly sobered, our hero straightened 
up and literally crushed his superior's fingers 
in his mighty fist. 

"Come with me," said the officer; "I know 
a place where you can rest until it's time to 
leave. And you boys here," said he turning 
towards them, "y^^'ll see to it that he doesn't 
miss his train." 

Night, inky black, fathomless night, had 
now settled about us. In the distance one 
could just discern the red and green signal 
lamps — at closer range the burning tip of a 
cigar or cigarette. The soldiers turned up 
their collars. The wind shifting to the north 
was piercing cold. One had to walk briskly 
up and down to avoid becoming chilled. Way 
at the other end of the platform the flare of 
fugitive matches revealed shadows moving 
about as though searching for something upon 
the ground. 

"What are you looking for?" 

"A third-class return ticket for Royan. 
That old lady over there has lost hers." 

We turned about to see a poor old wrinkled 
soul, in her native ISTorman costume, wringing 
her hands in distress. 

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"What a misfortune! Oh dear, oh dear, 
what a misfortune ! What will become of me 
now? What shall I do?" 

And to each inquisitive newcomer she bab- 
bled forth her story of a wounded grandson 
whom she was on her way to visit. The curate 
and another man of her village had seen to her 
expenses. They had purchased her ticket and 
handed it to her with strict instructions not to 
lose it. For safety's sake she had knotted it 
in the corner of her handkerchief — and now it 
wasn't there! 

The inquirer then examined her handker- 
chief, made her stand up and shake her cloth- 
ing, turn her pockets inside out, empty her 
baskets and her handbag; and still not 
willing to trust the thoroughness of his pre- 
decessors he would begin looking all over the 
immediate vicinity, match in hand. So pres- 
ently nearly two hundred men, forgetting their 
soreness and fatigue, were down on their knees 
scouring every nook and cranny. The sleepers 
were awakened, the drinkers routed out and 
put to work, scanning every inch of ground. 

A loud and persistent ringing of an electric 
bell sounded on the air. 

[195] 



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"Hey there, fellows!" called a tall Zouave. 
"Get together, the train is announced, and 
since we can't find grandma's ticket we can't 
leave the old girl alone in the dark, so come 
on, chip in — we'll make it up to her. She says 
it cost forty-two francs and ten centimes. Are 
you ready?" 

And removing his helmet he started to make 
the rounds. In an instant coppers and silver 
rang in the steel recipient. 

"Stop! that's enough." 

They retired to count. 

"Chic — there's some left over!" 

"Never mind, she'll buy something for the 
kid with it." 

Some one purchased the ticket. 

"There now, grandma, a new ticket and 
enough to buy your boy a cake with, so you 
should worry! But as you're too young to 
travel alone, we're going to take you in with 
us. We just happen to be going your way. 
Here Ballut, Langlois! Quick there — ^take 
her baskets. Now then, don't let go my arm — 
here comes the train. Sh! don't cry, there's 
nothing to bawl about, we're all good fellows — 
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all of US got grandmas who'd make just as big 
fools of themselves if they had to travel." 

And with infinite care and tenderness a 
dozen hands hoisted their precious burden into 
the dimly lighted wooden-benched compart- 
ment. 

Yes, travelling in France under such circum- 
stances is to me more interesting than ever, for 
when it is not one's fellow passengers who hold 
the attention, there are always those thousand 
and one outside incidents which the eye retains 
involuntarily. War factories and munition 
plants sprung from the ground as though by 
magic; immense training camps in course of 
construction, aviation fields over which so clev- 
erly hover those gigantic, graceful war birds, 
who on catching sight of the train fly low and 
delight the astonished passengers by throwing 
them a greeting, or, challenging the engineer, 
enter into a race. 

But above all, there is the natural pano- 
rama; that marvellous succession of hills and 
vales, hamlets and rivers, fields and gardens, 
so wonderfully harmonious beneath the pearl 
tinted sky. How it all charms and thrills, and 
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how near the surface is one's emotion on hear- 
ing a soldier voice exclaim: 
"What a comitry to die for!" 

So the hours sped by, and at length we 
reached our destination. P is a flourish- 
ing little city, perched on the side of a rocky 
hill, with a broad landscape spreading out at 
its feet. 

The best hotel is called "L'hotel des 
Hommes Illustres" — and its fa9ade is adorned 
with the statues of the above mentioned gen- 
tlemen carved in stone. The proprietor, who 
built the edifice and paid the bill, having been 
sole judge in the choice of celebrities, the re- 
sult is as astonishing as it is eclectic, and 
though absolutely devoid of beauty, thoroughly 
imposing. 

We arrived before our luggage, which was 
conveyed by so old and puffy a horse that we 
considered it criminal not to leave our cab and 
finish the hill on foot. At the top of a monu- 
mental staircase we entered the hotel office, 
behind whose desk were enthroned two per- 
sons of most serious aspect ; the one, stout and 
florid of complexion with a long nose and an 
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allure worthy of Louis XIV, proudly bore 
upon her head such an extraordinary quantity 
of blond hair arranged in so complicated a 
fashion that I trembled to think of the time 
required to dress it. The other, sallow faced, 
with a long curved chin, might have been taken 
for a Spanish Infanta, pickled in vinegar and 
allspice. 

The formality of greetings accomplished, 
princess number one produced a book in which 
we were to sign our names. The dignity and 
importance she attached to this ceremony 
would certainly not have been misplaced in a 
Grand Chamberlain preparing the official reg- 
ister for the signature of Peace prelimi- 
naries. 

This, together with the manner in which 
she took note of our names, drying them with 
a spoonful of gold sand, gave me the illusion 
that I had just performed some important 
rite. 

"One or two rooms?" she queried. 

"One big room, Madame." 

"With or without bath?" demanded the co- 
adjutor, whose voice possessed a contralto 
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quality utterly out of keeping with her pale 
blond hair and complexion. 

"With bath, please." 

A new register was opened. Both bent over 
it closely, each showing the other a diiFerent 
paragraph with her fore finger. Finally they 
murmured a few inaudible syllables and then 
shook their heads. 

"Would you prefer number six or number 
fourteen?" finally asked the Infanta. 

We looked at each other in astonishment, 
neither being superstitious about numbers, but 
it would have been painful to announce to these 
ladies that the matter was totally indifferent to 
us. They had been so condescending as to 
allow us a choice. 

"Number six has a balcony and two win- 
dows. Number fourteen has one window and 
a bathroom," the princess informed us. 

"But," continued the Infanta, "it is our 
duty to inform you that hot water has been 
forbidden by the municipal authorities, and 
that cold water is limited to two pitchers per 
person, per room." 

I said I would take number six, which ar- 
rangement terminated the ladies' mental in- 
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decision, and seemed to please them greatly. 
They smiled benignly upon us. 

The smaller one, whom I have called the 
coadjutor, because her throne was less ele- 
vated than the princess', put her finger on a 
button and a violent ringing broke the silence 
of the vast hallway. No one answered. 

Three times she repeated the rings, with an 
imperious movement. 

"Be kind enough to go and call Monsieur 
Amede, Mademoiselle Laure." 

On her feet. Mademoiselle Laure was even 
smaller than when seated. She crossed the 
vestibule, opened a door, and her strong voice 
resounded along an empty corridor from 
which issued the odour of boiling cauliflower. 

"Monsieur Amede!" she shouted anew, but 
not even an echo responded. 

"Mademoiselle Laure, ask for the head 
waiter." 

Mademoiselle Laure recrossed the vestibule 
and opening a door diametrically opposed to 
the other, called: 

"Monsieur Balthazard!" 

Monsieur Balthazard appeared, his shirt 
sleeves rolled up beyond his elbow, wiping his 
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hands on a blue gingham apron. He was a 
httle slim man who may have been sixty years 
old. A glass eye gave him a sardonic, comic 
or astonished air, according to the way he used 
his good one, which was constantly moving, at 
the same time that it was clear and piercing. 

"Monsieur Balthazard — what an attire for a 
head waiter!" 

"Madame, I was just rinsing the wine bar- 
rels." 

"And how about the errands for the people 
in rooms twenty- four and twenty-seven." 

A noise at the hall door attracted our at- 
tention. It was as though some one were 
making desperate and fruitless attempts to 
open it. 

"There he is now," exclaimed Monsieur 
Balthazard. "I'll go and let him in. He's 
probably got his hands full." 

Monsieur Amede, literally swamped be- 
neath his bundles, staggered into the vesti- 
bule. To the different errands confided to 
his charge by the hotel's guests had undoubt- 
edly been added the cook's list, for an enor- 
mous cabbage and a bunch of leeks completely 
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hid his face, which was uncovered only as he 
let them fall to the ground. 

When he had finally deposited his treas- 
ures, we discovered a small lad about fourteen 
or fifteen years of age, dressed in a bellboy's 
uniform which had been made for some one far 
more corpulent of stature. The sleeves 
reached far down over his hands, the tight fit- 
ting, gold buttoned jacket strangely resem- 
bled a cross between a bag and an overcoat, 
and though a serious reef had been taken in 
the trousers at the waist line, the legs would 
twist and sway — at times being almost as am- 
ple as those worn by the Turkish sultanas. 

Our coachman now arrived with our lug- 
gage. 

"Monsieur Amede, take this luggage and 
accompany Monsieur and Madame to num- 
ber six." 

The child gathered up his new burden and 
started upstairs. 

^ We followed, helping him pick up the va- 
rious objects which successively escaped his 
grasp. 

"Goodness, it seems to me you're awfully 
young to be doing such heavy work!" 
[203] 



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"Oh," said he, wiping his brow, "I'm very 
lucky. My mother is cook here, and Monsieur 
Balthazard is my uncle. With old fat Julia, 
the maid, and ISiathilde, the linen woman, we're 
all that's left. All the men have gone to war^ 
and the women into the powder mills. We 
keep the hotel going, we do." 

Monsieur Amede was full of good will, and 
a desire to help me all he could. He explained 
to us that he was now building the solid foun- 
dation of a future whose glories he hardly dare 
think, so numerous and unfathomable did they 
seem. Unfortunately, however, we were 
obliged to note that he seemed little gifted for 
the various occupations to which he had conse- 
crated his youth — and his glorious future — 
for in less than five minutes he had dropped a 
heavy valise on my toes, and upset an ink- 
well, whose contents dripped not only onto the 
carpet but onto one of my new bags. In try- 
ing to repair damages. Monsieur Amede 
spoiled my motor veil and got several large 
spots on the immaculate counterpane, after 
which he bowed himself out, wiping his hands 
on the back of his jacket, assuring us that 
there was no harm done, that no one would 
[204] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



scold US, nor think of asking us for damages. 

We saw him again at dinner time, when 
disguised as a waiter he passed the different 
dishes, spilling sauce down people's necks, 
tripping on his apron and scattering the hand- 
some pyramids of fruit hither and yon. Lastly 
he took a plunge while carrying out an over- 
loaded tray, but before any one could reach 
him he was on his feet, bright and smiling, ex- 
claiming : 

''I'm not hurt. No harm done. I'll just 
sweep it up. It won't stain." 

In the meantime quiet, skilful Uncle Bal- 
thazard strained every nerve in a herculean 
effort to keep his temper and serve thirty per- 
sons all at once. 

It was touching to hear the old man mur- 
mur, "Gently, boy — go gently," as his youth- 
ful protege stumbled from one blunder to an- 
other. "Go gently, you can be so clever when 
you're not in a hurry!" 

Monsieur Amede almost caused us to miss 
the train next evening in spite of the numer- 
ous warnings from the princess behind the 
desk, who had arranged the hour of our de- 
parture. That brilliant young man who had 
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



been sent ahead with our luggage was no- 
where to be found when our train was an- 
nounced. My husband, a woman porter, a sol- 
dier on furlough who knew him, started out to 
scour the immediate surroundings of the sta- 
tion, finally locating him in a backyard near the 
freight depot, his hands in his pockets, ex- 
citedly following a game of nine-pins at which 
a group of convalescent African soldiers was 
playing. 

Of course he immediately explained that 
there was no harm done since the train was 
twenty minutes late, and when finally it arrived 
and he handed our baggage into the compart- 
ment, he accidentally let slip a little wooden box 
containing an old Sevres vase, which I had 
purchased at an antiquity dealer's that very 
morning. 

He picked it up, exclaiming: 

"Lucky it's not fragile." 

And lifting his cap, on whose visor one 
might read "Hotel des Hommes Illustres," he 
cheerfully wished us a Bon voyage. 



[206] 



IX 



Before the war it used to be Aunt Rose's 
victoria that met us at the station; a victoria 
drawn by a shiny span and driven by pompous 
old Joseph, the coachman, clad in a dark green, 
gold-buttoned livery and wearing a cockade on 
his hat. Aunt Rose's coachman, and the Swiss 
at Notre Dame were classed among the curi- 
osities of the city, as could be attested by the 
numerous persons who hastened to their door- 
step to see the brilliant equipage pass by. 

But this time we found the victoria relegated 
beside the old "Berline" which Aunt Rose's 
great-grandmother had used to make a jour- 
ney to Italy; the horses had been sent out to 
the farm, where they were needed, and Joseph, 
fallen from the glory of his box, attired in a 
striped alpaca vest, and wearing a straw hat, 
half civilian, half servant, seemed a decidedly 
puffy old man, much aged since our last visit. 

"Monsieur and Madame will be obliged to 
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take the omnibus. Will Monsieur kindly give 
me the baggage check?" 

Then as I fumbled in my purse-^ 

"Monsieur and Madame will find many 
changes, I fear." 

But in spite of his prophecy to us there 
seemed little difference. The rickety old 
omnibus rattled and bumped noisily over the 
pointed cobble pavements, the tiny city merely 
seemed asleep behind its drawn blinds and its 
closed shutters. At the corner of the square in 
front of the chateau the old vegetable vendor 
still sold her products seated beneath her 
patched red cotton parasol; the Great Dane 
watchdog lay in exactly the same place on the 
tinker's doorstep. Around the high church 
tower the crows circled and cawed as usual, 
while the bell of its clock which, as we passed, 
slowly struck three, was echoed by the distant 
hills with the same familiar sound. 

The omnibus deposited us at the entrance 
to the big roomy edifice which Aunt Rose 
called "home." 

The broad facade, evenly pierced by its 
eighteen long French windows, had a genial, 
inviting appearance, while the soft rose colour 
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of the bricks, the white stone trimming, the iron 
balconies, mingled here and there with bas- 
reliefs and sculptures, were in perfect har- 
mony with the tall slanting slate roof and ma- 
jestic chimneys, the whole forming one of those 
delightful ensembles constructed by local 
architects during the 17th century for the 
pleasure and comfort of a large French bour- 
geois family. 

Aunt Rose herself, leaning upon an ivory- 
headed cane, but bright eyed and alert as ever, 
awaited us at the top of the steps. From her 
we soon learned that we had missed our friends 
the M.'s by but a day, and that little Andre, 
son of our cousins in Flers, had announced his 
visit for the following Monday. 

At this point Friquet, her old Pomeranian 
favourite, crept down from his cushion and ap- 
proached us. 

*'He doesn't bark any more, so you know 
he must be getting old," smiled Aunt Rose, 
caressing her pet. 

"My poor Victoire is getting on, too, I fear. 
Her nephew is stone blind since the battle of 
the Marne. Joseph has lost two of his grand- 
sons; of course, he didn't tell you — ^he doesn't 
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want any one to speak of it — but he's very 
much upset by it. Nicholas and Armandine do 
nothing but worry about their poor little 
Pierre, who hasn't given a sign of life for three 
months now — so I fear you will have to be very 
patient and very indulgent guests." 

The delightful old lady led us to our 
room, "the psyche room" we, the youngsters, 
used to call it on account of the charming 
grisaille wall paper, dating from the end 
of the Empire period, and representing in 
somewhat stiff but none the less enchanting 
manner the amorous adventures of that god- 
dess. 

I have always had a secret feeling that many 
a time, urged by her confessor, Madame 
de C. had been upon the point of obliter- 
ating or removing those extremely chaste 
nude images. But at the last moment rose 
up the horror of voluntarily changing anything 
in the homestead, transforming a whole room 
that she always had known thus, and perhaps 
the unavowed fear of our ridicule and re- 
proach, had made her renounce her project. 

"Brush up quickly, and come right down to 
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



tea. We've got so many things to talk over. 
You've so much to tell me !" 

So a quarter of an hour later, tea-cup in 
hand, we must needs go into the details of our 
trips, inform her of our hopes and fears, tell 
of all the different things we had seen — ^what 
America was going to do — what it had already 
accomplished. And with her marvellously 
quick understanding, her vivacious intelli- 
gence, the old lady classified the facts and the 
anecdotes, asked us to repeat dates and num- 
bers, that she might the better retain them in 
her splendid memory. 

All through dinner and the long evening 
she plied us with questions, kept the conversa- 
tion running along the same lines, returning 
now and then to a certain theme, or certain fig- 
ures, and asking us to go into even more 
detail. 

"I know I'm an abominable old egoist," at 
length she apologised. "But you'd forgive 
me if only you realised how much happiness 
your stories will bring, and to how many peo- 
ple. I imagine that you haven't had much 
time for correspondence with our family — but 
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that's all an old woman like myself is good for 
these days." 

"Our family" consisted in relationship to the 
'nth degree of all the H's, de C's, B's and F's 
that were then in existence, some of them such 
distant cousins that Aunt Rose herself would 
never have recognised them had they met. And 
besides these people there were her friends, her 
servants, her farmers, possibly a group of three 
hundred persons with whom the good soul cor- 
responded, giving news of the ones to the 
others, announcing misfortunes or joys — a liv- 
ing link between us all. 

Left a widow when still quite young. Aunt 
Rose had lived with and respected the mem- 
ory of her husband. Though she had had 
many an offer, she had never cared to remarry. 
But unable to stand the damp (Climate of Nor- 
mandy, she had returned to her family home- 
stead in this little city of the Bourbonnais, in 
whose suburbs she possessed quite a fortune in 
farm lands. Alone in the world, with no im- 
mediate family, she had devoted herself not 
only to her own, but to her husband's relatives. 
Her home had always been the havre de grace, 
known and venerated by them all; a meeting 
[212] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



place for reconciliation between persons whose 
self-control had escaped them; the shelter for 
prodigal and repentant sons who awaited the 
forgiveness of their justly wrathful sires; the 
comforting haven that seemed to assuage the 
pangs of departure and bereavement. But 
above all it was the one spot for properly cele- 
brating family anniversaries, announcing en- 
gagements, and spending joyous vacations. 

The war had been the cause of a great deal 
of hard work in this respect. 

*'Why, I receive more letters than a State 
functionary," Aunt Rose informed me when 
I came upon her early the next morning, al- 
ready installed behind her huge flat-topped 
desk, her tortoise-shell spectacles tipped down 
towards the end of her very prominent nose. 

"For nearly four years I've been writing 
on the average of twenty letters a day and I 
never seem to catch up with my correspond- 
ence. Why, I need a secretary just to sort 
out and classify it. You haven't an idea the 
different places that I hear from. See, here 
are your letters from the United States. Leon 
is in the Indo-Chinese Bank in Oceania. Al- 
bert is mobilised at Laos, Quentin in Mo- 
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rocco. Jean-Paul and Marcel are fighting 
at Saloniki; Emilien in Italy. Marie is Su- 
perior in a convent at Madrid; Madeline, 
Sister of Charity at Cairo. You see I've a 
world-wide correspondence. 

"Look," she continued, opening a deep 
drawer in one side of her desk, "here are the 
letters from my poilus and, of course, these 
are only the answered ones. The dear boys just 
love to write and not one of th^m misses a 
week without doing so. I'm going to keep 
them all. Their children may love to have 
them some day." 

Then she opened a smaller drawer, and my 
eye fell upon a dozen or fifteen packages, all 
different in size and each one enveloped in 
white tissue paper, carefully tied about with 
grey silk ribbon. 

"These were written by our dear departed," 
she said simply. 

In an instant they passed before my eyes, 
those "dear departed." Big, tall William, 
so gay and so childish, he who used to play the 
ogre or the horse, or anything one wished: a 
person so absolutely indispensable to their 
games that all the little folk used to gather 
[214] 




FLOCKING TO READ THE COMING 
COMMUNIQUE IN A LITTLE 
FRENCH CITY 

« i i Ji ti A mi L iiii w<JM i ' P wi i >w j(ii »i i .u ii t i i> '^jriii "i ii<lii 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



beneath his window early in the morning, cry- 
ing in chorus: "Uncle William! Uncle Wil- 
liam! do wake up and come down and play!" 

Jean-rran9ois, the engineer; Philippe, the 
architect; Honore, whom we dubbed "Des- 
honore," because he used always to return 
empty-handed when we went hunting together. 
Gone, gone forever ! 

Aunt Rose picked up one of the smaller 
packages. 

"These were from little Jacques." And two 
bright tears trembled on her lashes. 

"You remember him, of course, my dear. 
He was an orphan, he never knew his mother. 
I always supposed that is what made him so 
distant and reserved. Jean, his guardian, who 
is very severe, used to treat him as he did his 
own children — scolding him often about his 
indolence, his lack of application to his studies. 

"I used to have him here with me during his 
vacations. He loved this old house — and I 
knew it. Sometimes when you would all start 
out for some excursion I'd see him coming 
back towards the gate: 

" ^You're not going with them then, 
Jacques V 

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" *No, thank you, Aunt Rose, it's so nice in 
your drawing-room.' 

"When he was just a little baby I often 
wanted to take him onto my lap and laugh and 
play with him. But he was so cold and dis- 
tant! A funny little mite, even with boys of 
his own age. Nobody seemed to understand 
him exactly; certain people even thought that 
his was a surly nature. 

"He spent his last furlough here, and I 
found quite a change in him. He was more ro- 
bust and tanned. A splendid looking fellow, 
and I was so proud of him, 

" 'Aunt Rose,' he asked even before we em- 
braced, 'is there any one else stopping with 
you ?' 

" 'Why no, child, and I'm afraid you'll find 
the house very empty. If only I'd known you 
were coming I most certainly should have in- 
vited your cousins.' 

" 'Oh, I'm so glad you didn't! I much pre- 
fer being alone with you.' 

"He came and went in the house, but never 
could be persuaded to go outside the yard. I 
should have loved to have taken him with me 
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and shown his War Cross to some of my old 
friends. But he wouldn't hear of it. 

" 'Pooh!' he would laugh when I would sug- 
gest such a thing. 'If ever they come near 
me I'll tell them I've got "trench pest" — and 
then you'll see them clear out.' 

"He went down in the kitchen and I'd hear 
him pottering around. I never knew him so 
gay and happy. 

" 'Tante Rose, I'm going to sing you "La 
Madelon" and the "Refrain de la Mitraille." 
It was Planchet, the tinsmith, who composed 
it!' 

"He'd sit for hours in that big blue arm- 
chair, blinking at the fire, and then suddenly 
he'd come to earth and explain: 

" 'Aunt Rose, what a pleasure to be here.' 

"When finally he had to go back, he caught 
me and whispered in my ear, as I kissed him: 

" 'Next time, Tante, you promise me not to 
invite any one, won't you?' 

"Poor child, he will never come back, and 
his friend Planchet, the tinsmith, saw him fall 
with a bullet through his heart. It was he who 
wrote me the sad news. 

"Well, my dear, what mystery the soul hides 
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within itself! In one of the cupboards of the 
room he occupied I found two note books and 
a diary filled with verses he had never shown 
to any one, never admitted having written. 
How little we guessed what he was about when 
we scolded him for his indolence and inatten- 
tion. If you only knew what accents, what 
harmonious phrases he found to depict the 
shades of our trees, the rippling of the river, 
the perfume of the flowers and his love for us 
all. 

"There is a whole chapter devoted to the old 
homestead. He seemed to feel everything, di- 
vine everything, explain everything. None 
of us understood him. There is no use pre- 
tending we did. Not one among us would ever 
have guessed that so splendid and delicate a 
master of the pen lived and moved amongst 
us." 

Aunt Rose looked straight out onto the sun- 
lit court, the great tears trickling down her 
cheeks. 

For a long time neither of us spoke. 

Like its mistress. Aunt Rose's home lives to 
serve the war. The culinary realm is always 
[218] 



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busily engaged preparing pates and galan- 
tines^ rillettes and sausages. "For our boys," 
is the answer almost before the question is put. 
"They're so glad to get home-made dainties, 
and are always clamouring for more — no mat- 
ter how much you send! 

"Since they must eat preserved food, we 
might as well send them something we make 
ourselves, then we're sure it's the best. Why, 
I'd be ashamed to go out and buy something 
and send it off without knowing who had 
handled it." This was the cook's idea of pa- 
triotism, which I shared most heartily, having 
at one time had nothing but "bully beef" and 
dried beans as constant diet for nearly a fort- 
night. 

The coachman and inside man sealed the 
crocks and tins, prepared and forwarded the 
packages, 

"Oh, there's one for everybody! Even the 
boys of the city who haven't got a family to 
look after them. They must be mighty glad 
Madame's alive. We put in one or two post 
cards, views of the town. That cheers them 
up and makes them feel they're not forgotten 

here in R ." 

[ 219 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



One afternoon on descending into the 
kitchen we beheld two sturdy looking fellows 
seated at table and eating with ravenous ap- 
petite. One was an artilleryman who had but 
a single arm, the other a chasseur, whose 
much bandaged leg was reposing upon a 
stool. 

"They are wounded men on convalescent 
leave," explained Armandine. *'The poor fel- 
lows need a little humouring so that they'll 
build up the quicker, and an extra meal surely 
can't hurt!" 

This was certainly the opinion of the two 
invalids who had just disposed of a most gen- 
erous bacon omelet, and were about to dig 
into a jar of pate. 

Armandine and Nicholas watched them eat 
with evident admiration, fairly drinking up 
their words when between mouthsful they 
would stop for breath and deign to speak. 
Their rustic eloquence was like magic balm 
poured onto a constantly burning, ulcerated 
sore. 

"Your son? Why, of course, he'll turn 
up!" the artilleryman assured them. 

"But he hasn't written a line!" 
[220] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"That's nothing. Now just suppose that 
correspondence is forbidden in his sector for 
the time being." 

"I know, but it's three months since we 
heard from him. We've written everywhere, 
to all the authorities, and never get any re- 
turns — except now and then a card saying that 
they're giving the matter their attention. 
That's an awfully bad sign, isn't it?" 

"Not at all, not at all," chimed in the chas- 
seur, "Why, some of the missing have been 
found in other regiments, or even in the 
depots, and nobody knows how they got there. 

"Three months? Why, that's not long. 
After the battle of the Marne my poor old 
mother had them say Heaven knows how many 
masses for the repose of my soul; for four 
months and three days she never heard a thing 
of me, and I'd written her regularly every 
week. 

"Yes, and what are you going to do if the 
letter carrier gets killed, or the Boche locate 
the mail waggon on the road every other de- 
livery? Nobody's going to inform you of the 
accident." 

"And that does happen often?" 
[221] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"Almost every day." 

"Quite a common occurrence; there's noth- 
ing for you to worry about yet, really now." 

So "hope springs eternal" in the breasts of 
the bereaved parents, whose smile gradually 
broadens out into a laugh when the artillery- 
man recounts some grotesque tale, and gives 
his joyous nature free rein. 

The convalescents who came to this particu- 
lar city must have recuperated in the minimum 
of time, if regime had anything to do with 
the re-establishment. In every house the cloth 
was always on the table, the door open in sign 
of welcome. 

"Come in and have a bite with us," people 
would call to them as they passed by. 

Certain among them were being treated for 
severe cases and had been in the city a long 
time. The townspeople were proud of their 
progress and their cure, almost as proud as of 
their notary, who on leaving for the front was 
only a second lieutenant, but now had com- 
mand of a battalion of chasseurs, Nor must 
one forget Monsieur de P.'s son, cited for 
bravery among the aces, and least of all ignore 
Monsieur Dubois, who having lost both sons^ 
[222] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



shut up his house, settled his business and with- 
out telhng any one went oiF and enlisted as a 
simple private at sixty-two years of age. 

In coming to this distant little city I had 
sought to find repose for my somewhat shat- 
tered nerves ; dared hope for complete rest be- 
neath this hospitable, sympathetic roof. But 
the war was everywhere. Yes, far from 
the sound of the guns one's eyes are spared the 
spectacles of horror and desolation, but there 
is not a soul who for a single instant really 
escapes the gigantic shiver that has crept over 
all the world. Out here, far removed from 
the seat of events, life necessarily becomes 
serious and mournful. The seemingly inter- 
minable hours lend themselves most pro- 
pitiously to reflections, foster distress and mis- 
givings, and one therefore feels all the more 
keenly the absence of the dear ones, the emp- 
tiness due to the lack of news. 

There are but two moments when real ex- 
citement ripples the apparent calm of the lit- 
tle city; one in the morning when the paper 
boy announcing his approach by blowing his 
brass horn, runs from door to door distribut- 
[223] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



ing the dailies, while people rush forth and 
wait their turns impatiently. 

The evening communique arrives at 8 P. m. 
An old white-haired postman pastes it upon 
the bulletin board outside the post office. Long 
before the hour one can hear steps echoing 
on the pavement, as men, women and children, 
old people on crutches, cripples leaning on 
their nurses' arms, hasten in the same direction, 
moved by the same anxious curiosity. When 
the weather is inclement one turns up his 
trousers, or removes her best skirt. It is no 
uncommon sight to see women in woollen pet- 
ticoats with a handkerchief knotted about 
their heads standing there umbrella in hand, 
patiently awaiting the news. 

A line forms and each one passes in front 
of the little square piece of paper, whose por- 
tent may be so exhilarating or tragic. Then 
some one clears his throat, and to save time 
reads the bulletin for the benefit of the assem- 
bled group. 

Here again the strategists are in evidence. 

Monsieur Paquet, the jeweller, having served 
his three years some three decades ago at 
Rheims, has a wonderfully lucid way of ex- 
[ 224 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



plaining all the operations that may be made in 
that region, while Monsieur Morin, the grocer, 
whose wife comes from Amiens, yields the 
palm to no one when that sector is mentioned. 

Each one of these gentlemen has a special 
view on the subject, each favours a special 
mode of combat, and each, of course, has his 
following among the townspeople. But the 
masses give them little heed. 

Monsieur Paquet's persistent optimism or 
Monsieur Morin's equaiUy systematic pessi- 
mism do not touch them in the least. The 
French soul has long since known how to re- 
sist emotions. Sinister rumours shake it no 
more than do insane hopes and desires. 

"All we know is that there's a war," ex- 
claimed a sturdy housewife summing up her 
impressions, "and we've got to have victory so 
it will stop!" 

"Amen," laughs an impudent street gamin. 

Slowly the crowd disperses, and presently 
when the gathering is considerably diminished 
a group steps forward, presses around the bul- 
letin board and comments on the communique 
in an incomprehensible tongue. 

By their round, open faces, their blond hair 
[ 225 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



and that unspeakable air of honesty and cahn 
resolution, one instantly recognises the Bel- 
gians. Yes, the Belgians, come here in 1914, 
the Belgians who have taken up their abode, 
working anywhere and everywhere, with an in- 
comparable good-will and energy. But they 
have never taken root, patiently waiting for 
the day when once again they may pull out 
their heavy drays that brought them down here, 
whose axles they have never ceased to grease, 
just as they have always kept their magnifi- 
cent horses shod and ready to harness, that 
at a moment's notice old women and children 
may be hoisted into the straw and the whole 
caravan thread its way northward towards the 
native village; that village of which they have 
never ceased to talk, about which they tell the 
youngsters, who scarcely remember it now. 

"Ah, Madame," exclaimed one poor old soul 
in a phrase that might have seemed comic if it 
hadn't been so infinitely profound and touch- 
ing. "Ah, Madame, even if there isn't any- 
thing left, it will be ourvillage just the same!" 

Alas! I know but too well the fate of such 
villages at the front, occupied by the enemy, 
crushed beneath his iron heel, or subjected 



to his gun fire. ^ ^26 ] 



X 



It was Aunt Rose's custom to spend one 
week out of every four at her country seat. 
With the war had come the shortage of labour, 
and now that her head man had been mobihsed 
it was necessary for some one to take direct 
control, superintend and manage these val- 
uable farm lands which must do their share 
towards national support. 

It needed no urging to persuade us to ac- 
company her. 

"My farmers haven't the time to make the 
trip to town individually, so I get a list of 
their wants and my coming saves them so much 
trouble." 

So early one morning a big break was driven 
up to the door, and in less than five minutes 
it was so full of bundles and packages that I 
had my doubts as to our all fitting in, not to 
mention the word "comfortably." And when 
finally we did jog away it took every effort of 
the broad backed dray horse, who had been 
[227] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



sent from the farm, to pull us up the long 
sunny hills, so frequent in this region. 

The village which would be our ultimate 
destination was twelve miles from any station, 
and the nearest railway a funny little two- foot- 
gauge road, whose locomotives were comic to 
behold, their vociferous attempts at whisthng 
not even frightening the baby calves who stood 
and stared at them indifferently as they passed. 
Furthermore, the line was no longer in public 
service, save on market days at Le Donjon. 

Our route lay through an admirable, undu- 
lating country which seemed to be totally de- 
serted, for not even a stray dog crossed our 
path. Far in the distance, however, from time 
to time one might hear the throb of a motor. 

"They are winnowing almost everywhere to- 
day," explained Aunt Rose, "taking advantage 
of the good weather. We shall doubtless find 
every one very busy at Neuilly." 

The thrashing machine had been set up 
on the public square, and all along the last mile 
before entering the village we met great loads 
of wheat and oats, drawn by huge white oxen, 
who in turn were led by what seemed to me 
to be very small boys. The latter, stick in 
[228] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



hand, walked in front of their beasts, and 
swelHng their youthful voices would intone a 
kind of litany which the animals apparently 
understood and obeyed. 

The brilliant noonday sun shone down and 
bathed everything in gold. 

In the shadow of the little church the en- 
gine, attended by two white-bearded men, 
churned along, from time to time sending forth 
a shrill whistle. Women with bandana hand- 
kerchiefs tied down closely about their heads, 
unloaded the carts, and lifting the heavy 
sheaves in their brawny arms, would carry them 
to the machine, where others, relieving them, 
would spread them out and guide them into 
the aperture. 

Two handsome girls that might have served 
as models for goddesses stood, pitch-fork in 
hand, removing the chaff. The breeze blowing 
through it would catch the wisps and send 
them dancing in the air, while the great gen- 
erous streams of golden grain flowing from 
the machine seemed like rivers of moulten 
metal. 

The children and tin^y babies lay tucked 
away in the straw, sound asleep beneath a giant 
[229] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



elm that shaded one corner of the square. Now 
and again a woman would leave her com- 
panions and wiping the perspiration from her 
brow, approach this humble cradle, lift her in- 
fant in her arms, and seeking a secluded spot, 
give it suckle. 

I cannot tell how long I stood watching this 
wonderful rustic spectacle, so rich in tone and 
colouring, so magnificent in its simplicity, so 
harmonious in movement. There was no un- 
due noise — every motion seemed regulated, the 
work accomplished without haste but with an 
impressive thoroughness. Here then was the 
very source of the country's vitality. Else- 
where the war might crush and destroy lives, 
cities and possessions, but this was the bub- 
bling spring-head from whence gushed forth, 
unrestrained, the generative forces; stronger 
than war, stronger than death, life defiantly 
persistent. And I was seized with an immense 
pride, an unlimited admiration for these noble, 
simple women of France who had had the cour- 
age to set forth such a challenge ! 

For it is the women who have done it, of that 
there can be no doubt. 

The census indicates that in 1914 the total 
[230] 



A 



MAXENCE 



V 



X 7 



^ V) 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



number of inhabitants within this httle village 
was seven hundred and fifty. Of these, one 
hundred and forty men were mobilised, and 
forty-five have already been killed. The mas- 
culine element, therefore, has been redued to 
a minimum. 

Thevenet, the carpenter, grocery man and 
choir leader, gifted with a strong voice and a 
shock of curly black hair, but lame in both legs, 
is certainly, when seated behind his counter, the 
noblest specimen of the stronger sex that the 
village possesses. 

His pupil, disciple and companion, called 
Criquet, is, as his pseudonym indicates, ex- 
tremely small of stature, and though he regu- 
larly presents himself before the draft boards, 
he has invariably been refused as far too small 
to serve his country in the ranks. 

Of course, there are quite a number of 
sturdy old men, who have had ample occasion 
to do their bit by helping their daughters or 
their sons' wives on their farms. So in the vil- 
lage itself there remains hardly any one. 

Old man Magnier is so bent with rheuma- 
tism that each movement is accompanied by 
an alarming cracking of his bones, and one is 
[231] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



tempted to ask him not to stir for fear of sud- 
denly seeing him drop to pieces, as would an 
antiquated, over-dry grandfather clock, on 
being removed from a long stay in the garret. 

Monsiau, the inn-keeper, is ready and will- 
ing to do almost anything but he is so ter- 
ribly stout that the slightest physical effort 
causes him to turn purple and gasp for breath. 
He therefore remains seated, nodding like a 
big Buddha, half dozing over the harangues of 
his friend Chavignon, the tailor, whose first 
name, by the way, is Pacifique. But in order 
to belie this little war-like appellation, Chavig- 
non spends most of the time he owes to the 
trade dreaming of impossible plans and pre- 
paring ghastly tortures, to which the Kaiser 
shall be submitted when once we have caught 
him. 

Bonnet, the hardware dealer, in spite of his 
seventy-eight years, comes and goes at a lively 
pace — coughing, grumbling, mumbling — al- 
ways in a hurry, though he never has anything 
special to attend to. 

And finally there is Laigut; Laigut whom 
one consults when at his wits' end, simply be- 
cause he knows everything in general, and 
[232] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



nothing in particular, his knowledge covering 
all the arts and sciences as resumed in the 
Grand Encyclopedia. He is a little man with 
spectacles, and a short grey beard, costumed 
winter and summer alike in the same suit of 
worn brown velvet, a rabbit skin cap on his 
head, his feet shoved into wooden sabots. 

His reputation before the war was not what 
one would call spotless. His passion for fowl 
(other people's on principle) had led to his be- 
ing strongly suspected. He was a poacher, 
as well, always ready to bring you the hare 
or the pike you needed, at a fixed date and 
hour, more especially when the shooting and 
fishing seasons were closed. 

His was one of those hidden geniuses which 
the war had revealed. Otherwise we should 
never on earth have suspected him of being so 
capable. But be it requested that he repair 
a sewing machine, a bicycle or a watch ; sharpen 
a pair of scissors, put in a pane of glass, make 
over mattresses, shear a horse, a dog or a hu- 
man, paint a sign, cover an umbrella, kill a pig 
or treat a sprain, Laigut never hesitates, 
Laigut is always found competent. Add to 
this his commerce in seeds and herbs, his talent 
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WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



for destroying snakes and trapping moles, the 
fact that he is municipal bell ringer and choir 
boy, and you will have but a feeble idea of the 
activities of this man whose field seems so un- 
limited. 

In a little old shed behind his house he care- 
fully stores the innumerable and diverse ob- 
jects which are confided to his care, and con- 
trary to what one might suppose, he bears no 
malice for the lack of esteem bestowed upon 
him in times gone by. Not at all. His breadth 
of character is equalled only by the diversity 
of his gifts. From time to time a fowl may 
still disappear, but none save Mcdtre Menard 
is now accused. In these days there are so 
many foxes about ! 

If I may seem to have gone deep into detail 
concerning these people it is only because I 
am anxious to make better understood what 
life means in a village without men. That is to 
say without valid men who care for the cattle, 
steer the plough, keep the furrows of equal 
depth and straight as a die ; rake, hoe and sow ; 
reap, harvest and carry the heavy burdens, in 
fact, perform all the hard, fatiguing labour that 
the upkeep of the soil requires. 
[ 234 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



And yet, in spite of their absence, not a foot 
of ground has been neglected. The cattle are 
robust and well cared for, the harvests reaped 
and brought to cover, the taxes and the rents 
have been paid, and down under the piles of 
linen in those big oak cupboards lie many blue 
bank notes, or several bonds of the National 
Defense. And France has crossed the thresh- 
old of her fifth year of war. 

To whom is this due? The women. 

There were no training schools to teach them 
how to sow or reap — no kindly advisors to 
take the husbands' places and tell them what 
animals to keep and feed, at what time to sell, 
or at what price. They had to learn from hard 
experience, taxing their intuition and great 
common sense to the utmost. 

And with it all they are so shy and mod- 
est; at heart a little bit ashamed when you 
speak to them in terms of admiration for what 
they have done. 

"We didn't really know what to do at the 
end of that first year when we found there 
wasn't any one to take care of the ground," 
explained Julie Laisne, who lives just behind 
Aunt Rose. 

[235] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"I would have tried to plough, been glad 
to do it, but I was afraid the others would 
make fun of me," said Anna Troussiere. 

"That's just the way I felt about it," ex- 
claimed Julie. "I nearly went crazy when I 
knew time was flying, winter coming, and no 
wheat in. I've no doubt it was the same with 
all the others. Then one day the news ran 
round like lightning that Anna was out 
ploughing her fields, with her kid and her 
grandfather to help her. Nobody took the 
time to go and see if it was true. Each one 
got out her plough. Of course, the first fur- 
rows were not very straight, but soon we got 
used to it, and Lord, how we laughed over my 
first attempts, when my husband came home 
the next fall on furlough." 

I wish that some great master of the pen 
might paint in words as simple as the Golden 
Legend, in stanzas as pure as the Litanies of 
the Holy Virgin, the picture of this little Julie, 
up and about with the first rays of dawn, 
always hard at work, and whom when night 
has closed in I have often come upon, bending 
over beneath her tallow candle, writing to the 
dear one at the front. To this task as to all 
[236] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



the others she concentrates her every effort 
and attention, anxious that no news be forgot- 
ten, — news which is as fresh and naive as the 
events and the nature that inspires it. "The 
sow has had twelve httle pigs, the donkey has 
a nail in its hoof, little Michel has a cold, and 
butter now sells for forty-three sous the 
pound. " 

Her farm is too small and brings in too lit- 
tle for her to dream of taking on some one to 
help. But she keeps three cows, and three 
calves ; a dozen or two pigs, a donkey and all 
the chickens she can afford to feed. Forty 
acres is quite a responsibility for so small a 
person, and it requires lots of courage to re- 
place the missing muscle, to till the soil, care 
for the kitchen garden and the animals, and 
send three small children off to school on time, 
all of them washed and combed, without a hole 
in their stockings or a spot on their aprons. It 
needs something more than courage to be 
able to sing and dissimulate one's anxieties, to 
hide in one corner of that envelope that will be 
opened by him "Out there," a little favourite 
flower, tenderly cared for, nursed to maturity. 

"Bah!" she laughs as I sympathise. "It 
[237] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



might be bad if one were all alone in his 
troubles. But we're all in the same boat, down 
here!" 

Yes, all of them have done their duty — 
more than their duty, the impossible. In other 
villages it is just the same — in other Provinces. 
From one end to the other of France such mar- 
vels have been accomplished that the govern- 
ment decided that so much devotion merited 
recompense. 

So one fine morning a motor was seen to 
stop in front of the Cafe Lacroix, a gentleman 
in uniform (some say it was the Prefet) ac- 
companied by two other men, got down and 
walked over to the town hall that is near the 
church. 

A few moments later Criquet was dispatched 
on bicycle to Anna Troussiere's and Claudine 
Charpin's, with orders to bring them back with 
him. 

He soon returned accompanied by the two 
frightened creatures, who fearing ill news had 
not unrolled their sleeves nor removed the 
handkerchief from their heads, but jumped on 
their bicycles and hastened to the town hall. 

Then suddenly the gentleman in uniform 
[ 238 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



appeared on the steps, made them a little 
speech, and stepping down pinned a medal on 
their heaving breasts. He thrust a diploma 
which bore their names into their trembling 
fingers, shook hands with them most cordially, 
and mounting in his car, drove away in a cloud 
of dust. 

Every one, much excited, gathered around 
the two women. The medals were handed 
about, commented upon. 

J 'Beautiful," exclaimed Criquet who is some- 
thing of a wag. "I think they're made of 
bronze. Too bad they're not chocolate so you 
might give us all some." 

"Claudine," said Anna Troussiere, "it's time 
we went home if we don't want to be teased to 
death. Goodness, if only we'd known, we 
might have brushed up a bit!" 

But the incident did not end there. The 
government, anxious to show its gratitude, of- 
fered to send them help, in the shape of war 
prisoners. The proposition was tempting. A 
bourgeois who had several big farms said he 
would accept four. This almost caused a revo- 
lution. The four Germans were quartered in 
[239] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



a shed and an old territorial mounted guard 
over them. 

"They were good fellows," Julie explained 
when she told me the story. "Hard workers 
too. Very kind to the animals and under- 
standing everything about a farm. I don't 
know — I used to have a funny feeling when I 
saw them. But, poor souls, I don't suppose 
they wanted the war, they'd probably have 
much rather been home and yet they were as 
obliging as could be. Always ready to lend 
a hand when there was a hard job to be 
tackled. 

"They made rather a good impression, and 
two or three of our women farmers had almost 
decided to send for some. Well, this lasted un- 
til the next Sunday. As they were all cath- 
olics, of course they came to church, and were 
seated on the first bench, with their sentinel 
at the end. Everything went finely until the 
Curate got up to preach, first reading the an- 
nouncements for the week. When he asked 
that prayers be said for Jules Lefoulon and 
Paul Dupont, both from our parish and both 
killed on the Field of Honour, and we looked 
up we could see the four Boche sitting calmly 
[ 240 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



in front of us — I can't tell you what it meant ! 
Every one was weeping. Of course, we didn't 
let them feel it. They saluted every one most 
politely, you could almost see that they weren't 
bad men — but every one said, 'No, none of 
their help needed. We've got on without them 
up till now. I fancy we can see it through.' " 

Even Madame Fusil, the baker, who was in 
most urgent need of assistance, resolved to be 
equal to her task alone. It is her little daugh- 
ter who delivers the bread to all the numerous 
patrons, quite a complicated undertaking for 
so young a child, who must drive her poor old 
nag and his load down many a bumpy side 
path. One can hear her little voice all over the 
country side. "Here Jupiter — get up, I say." 

I met her one morning in the Chemin du 
Moulin, whip in hand, pulling old Jupiter by 
the bridle. But Jupiter had decided to take 
a rest. Nothing could make him budge, noth- 
ing, neither cries nor complaints, sweetmeats 
nor menaces. Jupiter was as determined as he 
was obstinate. 

The unfortunate child was red with indigna- 
tion, almost on the verge of tears. 

"Oui, ouif' she fairly sobbed, "he just 
[241] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



ought to be sent to the front. That would 
teach him a lesson. He does it on purpose, I 
do believe. He knows well enough I'll be late 
to school! It's already half past seven. I've 
got three more deliveries to make, and must 
take him home and unharness him!" 

"What time did you start out, child?" 

"Why, four o'clock as usual, Madame. But 
I'm sure to be late this morning." 

I promised that as I was passing by the 
school I would step in and tell Madame Du- 
mont, the head mistress, the reason of her tar- 
diness. She felt much better after that, and 
presently our combined efforts got Jupiter to 
move. 

True to my word I sought out Madame 
Dumont, and found the good woman already 
extremely busy at this early hour. 

A peasant mother and her three children all 
arrayed in their Sunday best, were grouped 
together at one end of the garden, smiling 
blandly into the lens of a camera which the 
school mistress set up and prepared to oper- 
ate. 

"There— that's it— smile! Click! It's all 
over. Now then, Magloire, climb up on a chair. 
[242] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



Hold yourself quite straight, dear, so your papa 
will see how much you've grown." 

Magloire was photographed with her nose 
in the air, her mouth wide open, her other fea- 
tures registering the most complete lunacy. 
Joseph, her brother, at whom they fairly 
shrieked in order to make him smile, produced 
the most singular contortion of the mouth that 
I have ever seen, which denoted an extreme gift 
for mimicry, rare in so young a child. 

Little Marie was taken on her mother's lap, 
and I thought of the ecstasy of the brave fel- 
low to whom one day the postman would bring 
the envelope containing the glorious proofs. 
With what pride he will show them to his 
companions, how he will gloat over his Ma- 
gloire and his Joseph, his petite Marie and his 
bonne femme. Then, drawing away from the 
others, he will study them again, each one in 
turn. Nights when on duty, those cold nights 
of vigil, way out there in Saloniki, when 
fatigue and homesickness will assail him, he 
will slip his hand down into his pocket, and 
his rough fingers will touch the grease stained 
envelope that contains the cherished faces of 
his dear ones. 

[243] 



WITH THOSE WHO *WAIT 



It all recalled other powder-blackened hands 
clenched forever about soiled remnants of en- 
velopes, from which protruded the edge of a 
precious photograph. A shiver ran down my 
spine as the brave mother and her three little 
ones passed by me on their way to change 
their clothes — assume their humble dress. 
''Merci, Madame Dumont, Merci hien" 
"At your service, Madame Lecourt." And 
Madame Dumont turned to examine her mail. 
Rather voluminous in size, but with the Mayor, 
his substitute, and her husband at the front, 
she had become town clerk, and the quantity 
of paper and printed matter a village like this 
daily receives, is quite unbelievable. Quickly 
the little school mistress ran through the en- 
velopes, finally breathing a deep sigh of re- 
lief. 

"Ah, nothing this mail, thank Heaven!" 
"Why, what were you expecting?" 
"Oh, I wasn't expecting anything, but I live 
in terror of finding that fatal official bulletin 
announcing the death of some man in our com- 
munity. Each time I leave the house, the eyes 
of every living soul are fairly glued to me. 
[ 244 ] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



The women here love me, I know, and yet I 
feel that I frighten them. 

"If on going out I start up the road, those 
who live below here breathe again, relieved. 
You cannot imagine the tricks I must resort 
to in order not to arouse false suspicions. 
Then, as soon as I open their door they know 
the reason of my coming, and what poor mis- 
erable creatures I often take in my arms and 
try vainly to console. 

"Ah, Madame, the wives you can cope with, 
say things to, put their babies in their arms. 
But the mothers, Madame, the mothers!" 

"And no one complains, Madame Dumont?" 

"No one, Madame, they all know that we've 
got to win this war." 

All along the road home I walked slowly, 
lost in reverie. But I had no time for musing 
after my arrival, for Aunt Rose met me at the 
doorstep, a small boy by her side. 

"Listen, my dear," she cooed, "I've a great 
favour to ask you. Would you mind walking 
around to the farms and telling them that 
Maxence will be here to-morrow morning? His 
little boy has just come over to tell me." 

The coming of Maxence produced an inde- 
[245] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



scribable enthusiasm wherever I announced the 
news. Maxence is the only blacksmith in 
Neuilly. Of course he's serving in the artil- 
lery, but during his quarterly ten-day per- 
missions, he tries to cover all the work that is 
absolutely indispensable to the welfare of the 
community. He arrived much sun-burned and 
tanned, accompanied by two other chaps who 
were not expected, having travelled two days 
and two nights without stopping. 

They seated themselves before a succulent 
repast prepared by Madame Maxence, and in 
the meantime the crowd began gathering in 
the shop. 

"Get in line ! Get in line !" he called to them 
joyfully. "Give me time to swallow my coffee 
and I'll be with you." 

Abandoning his uniform, he put on his old 
clothes, his sabots and his leather apron, and 
for ten long days the hammer beat incessantly 
upon the anvil. 

Sometimes between strokes he would look 
up and smile, calling out : 

"Why, they won't even give me time to catch 
a mess of fish, or go to see my grandmother at 
Paray!" 

[246] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



There is always some tool to be repaired, a 
last horse to be shod. 

"What do you know about this for a fur- 
lough! And every time it's the same old 
story." 

The others, all those whom I have seen re- 
turn from the front, do exactly as did Max- 
ence. 

Pushing open the gate, they embrace their 
pale and trembling wives, cuddle the children 
in their arms, and then five minutes later one 
can see Jean or Pierre, clothed in his work- 
ing suit, seized and subjected by the laws of his 
tradition. 

Sunday though, the whole family must go to 
Mass. The careful housewife has brushed and 
cleaned the faded uniform, burnished the hel- 
met, put new laces in the great thick-soled 
shoes. The children cling to their father, proud 
of his warlike appearance. Then afterwards, 
of course, there are many hands to be shaken, 
but no extraordinary effusions are manifested. 

"Ah, home at last, old man!" 

** You're looking splendid. When did you 
get here?" 

[2471 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



"Did you come across Lucien, and Bataille's 
son?" 

They hardly mention the war. They talk of 
the weather, the crops, the price of cattle, but 
never of battle. I have even found a certain 
extraordinary dislike for discussion of the sub- 
ject. Or when they can be persuaded to speak, 
they laugh and tell of some weird feat. 

"There are those who make the shells, those 
who shoot them, and those who catch them. 
We're doing the catching just at present. 
There doesn't seem to be much choice !" 

They return, just as they came, without 
noise, without tears. 

"Gigot's son's gone back this morning." 

"Is that so? How quickly time flies !" 

They take the road with a steady step, 
loaded down beneath their bundles. But they 
never turn their heads for a last good-bye. 

"Aren't you going to mend my pick-axe, 
Maxence?" queried an old neighbour. 

"Sorry, mother, but I've got to leave." 

"Well, then, it'll be for next time." 

"If next time there is!" 

There is that terrible conditional "If" in all 
[248] 



WITH THOSE WHO WAIT 



such village conversations, just the same as in 
every conversation all over France. 

Two years ago still another "If" hung on 
every lip. The hope that it entertained seemed 
so vastly distant that no one dared give it 
open utterance. But each in his secret soul 
nurtured and cherished the idea, until at length 
those whispered longings swelled to a mighty 
national desire, 

"If only the Americans . . ." 

They have not hoped in vain. The Amer- 
icans have come. 



FINIS 



[ 249 ] 



OTHER BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR 



MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF HONOUR 

"The classic story of the retreat of the 
civil population at the Battle of the 
Mame." — The Review of Reviews 

With drawings by Charles Huard. Net $1,35 



MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF MERCY, 

"Here, if you will, is the material for a 
million melodramas, but purged of dross 
by the quiet heat of a great sincerity." 

— Life 

With drawings by Charles Huard. Net $1.35 



See "pages following 

[251] 



MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF HONOUR 

Nation-wide tribute to Madame Huard*s hook 
MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF HONOUR 

The New Republic: There are moments of 
genuine poignancy in this book, and inter- 
spersed with her narrative of tired horses and 
frightened domestics are bits of insight into 
the reaction of the French provincials to the 
war, all the more valuable because unconscious. 
One gets a quicker and keener sense of the 
reality of the war from this unassuming nar- 
rative of a quiet home invaded and then re- 
stored, than from the journalist's favourite 
massing of casualty lists and summoning of all 
his superlatives. 

British Weekly: It is an inspiring record of 
heroism and fortitude and helps to explain the 
undying wonder of the French poilu. 

New York Sun: The direct, matter-of-fact 
way in which Madame Huard relates her story 
makes every point tell, so that it is one of the 
most interesting the war has brought out. 

New York Evening Sum,: The brilliant 
achievement of the book is the complete suc- 
cess with which the reader is held from begin- 
ning to end in a tranced awareness of the swift 
[252] 



MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF HONOUR 

descent of the world storm. We need such a 
book as this. It makes the reader decide that 
somehow he did not read as much as he thought 
in the newspapers about the charge on Paris 
and the Battle of the Marne. The drawings 
are exquisitely reproduced, with something of 
the mellow effect of certain French prints of 
a generation ago. 

The Argonaut: Madame Huard would 
make an admirable reporter. Her narrative 
is of the things she saw and heard and it will 
take its place as an extraordinarily vivid page 
of war history. 

Vogue: Madame Huard has made one of 
the most fascinating books that have come out 
of this war. It is lively, cheerful, humorous, 
but sjmipathetic, dramatic, and seldom bitter. 
Her husband, official painter of the Sixth 
French Army, has furnished illustrations of 
charm and significance. 

The Independent: What this American 
woman saw and experienced cannot be passed 
over lightly. Its significance should be 
grasped by every thinking American woman. 

With drawings by Charles Huard. l^mo. Net $1.35 

[2531 



MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF MERCY 

Enthusiastic Critical Reception of Madame Huard's 
MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF MERCY 

New York Times: A book that is breath- 
lessly interesting, full of fun in spite of all the 
danger and tragedy, lightened with the most 
delicious pen pictures of the French poilu in 
all sorts of situations. It is a book worth hav- 
ing been written and deeply worth reading. 
The illustrations by Charles Huard are ex- 
quisite drawings, vignettes of battle scenes, 
characters in the story, visions of France as 
she looks today. 

Vogue: Madame Huard is a vivid narra- 
tor, picturesque in phrase, not given to exag- 
geration and delightfully free from self- 
consciousness or vainglory. Her book is well 
worth while reading, not only as the record of 
the wonderful accomplishment of one woman, 
but as an absorbing story of life in a war-rid- 
den country with all its unexpected humour, 
and inevitable pathos. 

Literary Digest: Mme. Huard tells in vivid 

language, as only a woman of profound pity 

and unfailing womanly resources could, of how 

she and her few helpers cared for the wounded 

[254] 



MY HOME IN THE FIELD OF MERCY 

and sick French soldiers billeted with her. Her 
book is a wonderful record of what has been 
possible and imperative because of this war. 

Chicago Tribune: Madame Huard has the 
zest for life and the power to receive impres- 
sions and describe them that makes of her a 
natural and powerful realist. This wonder- 
fully interesting book is exquisitely illustrated 
with drawings by Charles Huard. 

Springfield Republican: Madame Huard 
does not dwell on unpleasrant details. With an 
American sense of humour — she is the daugh- 
ter of Francis Wilson the comedian — and 
with also a touch of dramatic sense, she light- 
ens her book with the quaint sayings and do- 
ings of the people around her. 

Providence Journal: Every word of Ma- 
dame Huard's story is intensely absorbing; one 
follows with heartfelt admiration the account 
Df the miraculous way she and her helpers cared 
for three times the number of invalids whom 
they would normally have cared for. M. 
Huard's charming sketches are a feature of the 
book which must be seen to be appreciated. 

With drawings by Charles Huard. 12mo. Net $1.35 

[255] 



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